Wednesday, December 06, 2006
But she knows I'm here now, and she's excited to see the marzipan pastry that I've brought her from the pirogi place in Pike Place Market. She remembers when we flew to Norway together and ate chocolate covered marzipan. It's just remembering this week that's tough. I've been working Grama, and now I have to go to the airport. I suspect that's where it came from -- work, airport, stewardess.
Old age is another country from which she occasionally dispatches postcards -- some make no sense, as if she's touched by the fever, others are perfectly clear, like when we seated ourselves next to the Christmas tree in the lobby and she talked of their tree, the one they set up with the kids, her kids, one of them my father. "Your Bompa was so particular about his tree. You know your Bompa." And her eyes fill with tears, a smile crosses her face.
I do, Grama, I do. And yes, so do you.
[Found this Seattle Times clipping among my grandmother's things -- it was shot at some kind of fundraiser in 1947. That's her in the middle. My beautiful grama.
Posting by cameraphone.]