Grandma

She wears many hats to match her many roles
She is a Wife, Mother and Grandmother
She is an Artist, Philosopher and Traveler
She is generous in her kindness and her love
She is exact and she is eccentric
She is aged, and yet she is young.

Her name is Sesta, and she is my Grandma.

I remember cold holidays; Thanksgiving and Christmas
Wandering through her kitchen
Comforted by the sights and sounds
And assailed by the smells
Of her glorious cooking.
“Stop it!” my mom would say,
And chase me away from picking at the food.
But Grandma would always have a wry smile and a nod,
Because how was she to know how the food was coming along,
If the grandkids weren’t there to test it?

I remember being amazed by her artwork,
“Did you really paint that?”
I remember the hundreds of books on her shelves
The ever changing walls of her home
With new canvases, prints and photographs
Constantly shifting about
I remember crouching next to cold headstones with her
Checking the names and dates of those gone before us
And I remember bending down in the bushes next to a statue in the park
While Grandma explained to me the meaning of the name etched at the base.

I haven’t told this story so much as she has told it herself
She is as cheeky as she is reserved
And she is as exasperating as she is inspirational
She will always greet you with a hug,
In the same way she says goodbye,
She will always come to you
Whenever you ask it of her
And she will always, always love her Grandchildren,
Unconditionally, wonderfully, and forever
In the way that only she knows how to love.
Grandma. My Grandma.