<em>This is Part Two of my celebration of two amazing women and their roles in shaping who I am. The idea to write these posts about my grandmothers was inspired by <a href="http://www.magpie-girl.com/20081021/an-invitation-to-play-dia-de-los-muertos/">Magpie Girl</a>'s remembrances of her own grandmother, and the approach of All Souls' Day. I don't want to wait until they are gone to remember them.
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Dear Grandma,

You have always been someone I feel inexplicably close to, even though most of my life you lived far away in California.

I'm convinced that part of our closeness was actually the result of distance. I only got to see you every other year, but you were my first pen-pal. It was by reading your letters to me that I learned to write letters. Yours were expressive, with lots of exclamation points and underlining. I could hear your voice in them, as if we were talking on the phone. Your letters were descriptive, too—you used words to paint images of your interactions with people and the beauty of the physical world around you. Reading your letters made me feel like I was right there.

As I learned the art of letter writing by your example, I then tried my hand at it by regularly penning my thoughts West toward you. A few years ago, when my mom and her sister flew to California to move you out of your home, my mom found what must be every letter I had ever written to you. Just the thought of you treasuring each letter I sent fills me with your love. I'm not sure why exactly, but I haven't yet gone through those letters I wrote so long ago. In part, I think it's because I know how clear a window they will be into who I was then, and who you were to me: a true pen-pal, who I could safely open up to within the private space created by pen on paper. I need to somehow prepare myself before I'm ready to peer through that window.

I think there's something else, though, that has made me feel close to you. I have always recognized in you a sizable portion of who I was and am, as well as a significant aspect of who I wanted (and still want) to be. I could relate to your love for words and music and clothes, and to your quirky sense of humor. I could also relate to your feisty response to anything that ruffled your feathers, and to how that feisty attitude sometimes got you in trouble. You were transparent and opinionated, and you took life head-on.

What I couldn't always relate to, but was always drawn to, was your pure joyfulness in all circumstances, and your unwavering trust in God's goodness. You were always a true light to those around you; somehow you managed to bring sunshine to people without ever downplaying life's darkness and storms. You were a realist, without being cynical. I wanted—and still want—to be more like you.

Now you are 93, living in a nursing home in Michigan so my parents can spend time with you almost every day. Even as your body has weakened and your mind has become clouded with dementia, you have managed to be the light of the nursing home, spreading your infectious joy as you spent your days scooting around the halls in your wheelchair. Just recently, you've started napping most of the day, and requiring someone to feed you, which is hard for me to imagine.

While writing this letter to you now makes me incredibly happy as I think of all of the letters that have gone back and forth between us, it also makes me profoundly sad. The saddest thing is knowing that you can't read what I'm trying to communicate to you, or even understand as my mom reads these words to you. And I can't stop myself from wondering why I never directly said these things to you before, when you could absorb them. All I can do is trust that, just as our bond was was always deeper than words on a page, the underlying essence of everything that was felt, but not written or said, somehow makes its way through to your heart.

Love,

Kristin

<a href="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/gmac.jpg"><img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-115" title="gmac" src="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/gmac-225x300.jpg" alt="" width="262" height="349" /></a>

<em>My Grandma C. (June), with my youngest daughter, S June.</em>