There is an old lady in my life. It feels weird to say that, because she’s anything but old. At 75, she’s more awake and sometimes lucid than most people at 22. She’s got more energy than I do, and, as I often say to her, she’s crazy with love.
She’s crazy with love, and sometimes that gets misdirected, sure. She gets emotional over the things that us hardened humans are desensitised by. She cries over television episodes (note – I do too – who on earth doesn’t when confronted with the story of an Extreme Makeover Home Edition!?!), and she’s passionate about the love she has in her heart. True, I don’t always agree with her. True, we have sometimes differing opinions on faith, but this is where I respect her most, strangely.
She lives her faith. She lives her faith through her words and her actions, and yes, that can be overwhelming at times, but she does it with heart and good intention. I believe that, and it’s probably for that reason that I love her so much.
She is the Shmooshy’s grandmama. Now, bare in mind that I never really had grandparents of my own, and, I believe their role in children’s lives is incomparable.
So, when I first met her, in her crazy-with-love state, I don’t mind to say that I fell in love too.
And that’s how we’ve been ever since. So it’s weekly phonecalls, manic SMS sessions, love and conversation when we see each other. We can talk for hours and it seems like mere minutes.
I love her, and I love her perspective on life. I love the way she loves and lives for her family, even though it can feel invasive at times. I love that she LIVES love. She doesn’t just talk it, she LIVES it.
Most of all, I love that she is mine. I call her mine, because I believe she was given to me to have. At a time in my life when I felt I had a diminishing family, I got all the family I could ever want, and more. And she is that – she’s family.
What a lucky, lucky me. X