I just realized I love my grandmother very much. I don’t think it’s fair to measure feelings of closeness by how much you’d miss a person if he/she was gone, but doing so for me just makes these feelings more pronounced.
My grandmother’s an incredibly strong person. It takes guts to raise four kids on your own after a grandfather whom I never knew nor gave a damn about left her side. It takes courage to go for dialysis almost every day and come out smiling, never once showing any sign that a doctor plunging needles into your veins on a regular basis might be just a little more painful than an ant bite. Or a channel 5 sitcom. And it takes balls, to postpone family dinners because England’s playing Germany in the World Cup. The budget of subsequent meals are directly proportionate to the number of goals scored.
I love how my grandmother gave herself a Christian name in the ’70s because she thought it was fashionable And how she’d take an hour to put on makeup and nice clothes before going to the market because she knew that the neighbourhood’s aunties would converge. She hates the term aunty. She calls aunties, aunty.
She tells me to endure the hardship of a military life but I look at what she’s overcome and frankly, I haven’t gone through nuts. If anything, I’m just happy that she was there on the parade square last year. It’s good to take moments.
