day 13: welcome home

My grandmother came home.

She is 91, and a rockstar.

She reminds me of Yoda: wise, ancient, a person who speaks in riddles. 

I can hardly understand anything she says; we speak different languages.  But I feel the tissue of her cheek on mine and the feathers of kisses soft as snow.  She smiles; mine is automatic. So full of joy, this childlike grandma.

She doesn’t bake cookies, she doesn’t own a farm, but I wouldn’t trade her for a Julia Childs. I do miss my Bapcea. She was a beast (in a good way.)

When You Are Old
by W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.