the apron I was embroidering on so much last winter. At some point, I had to set it aside, and I sort of forgot all about it. Funny thing, I started to feel that it was silly to put so much work into an article of clothing meant for keeping clean, when I'd be mortified to get it messed up. And furthermore, it needs more embroidery, because the blank spaces are out of balance with the stitched ones. But. But, how can I seroiusly add more effort to something whose purpose is already confounding?
He came in to hear more, then moved over to the bed for a warmer, more accomodating snuggle. I'm sure he's somewhere cozy, now. I might join him, keep him company, and think about the holidays. I have been at this for a few days, and I am enjoying it very much, the ideas, and dates, the plans, and hopes. It's a good foggy morning pastime, planning our activities, imagining what we will do during winter break, anticipating the visits with family, the traditions we have, and new things we might include.
Not a day goes by when I don't think of my beloved Grandmother, our Grandma Jones. She is on my shoulder, over my heart, in my head. She guides me, pulls me forward, coaxes me to rally, informs my resolve, inspires me to tap into my courage, see the beauty. It's constant... loving her, missing her, replaying all of the moments, and instances of goodness that I had the honor and pleasure of enjoying with her, because of her. I was aware that the anniversary of her passing was imminent. It does not feel any easier to accept, any less sad. She lived a long life, that was good. I still feel a bit riled, kind of greedy, unreasonable, when it's suggested that a good, long life is all we can ask for, that it's a consolation. I just want her. I still just want her.
I finished this post, and my phone pinged, a message from my Mom. It was four years ago, today, she reminded me. And even though I knew the anniversary was coming up, I wasn't thinking of it, yet, not when I was blogging. I read the sweet message from my Mom, then looked back at my computer screen, thinking, I didn't mention Eunice, or this day, its significance, and then I looked closer and saw something... something I am aware of everyday. She's there, even when I am not deliberating writing about her, or focused on her, she is here. I posted the yellow flowers that I had had this pressing compulsion to photograph minutes ago, when coming home from dropping off Maria. Yellow flowers are Eunice, they belong to Grandmother. That's always how I see it. Cats, and owls and embroidery, aprons, and making everyday things beautiful... all of those are Eunice, to me. And that's her quilt on our bed, where the kitty is warm and comfortable. And thinking of holidays, of family gathering, and feeling sentimental, nostalgic, yet cheered by the prospect of pretty things, and spiritual joy, courage and pleasure in the face of challenges, resolve... those are her, too. Those plans and hopes, and memories, are dearer, and more cherished, because Eunice is on my shoulder, a part of my heart, in my thoughts. And Mommy, I love you. Weren't we the most fortunate? I am thinking of you, and feeling sad, as well as blessed. I know you will find pretty things in nature, in memories, and find her there, too.