From: a PrincessTo: a Queen Mother

(this post was written by Jess on January 19, 2007, and it concerns & )

The words of love and respect that are supposed to flow from my lips, fail me. I am left with a scattering of memories from the misplaced time and years of my youth. I need to speak these words aloud to substantiate the memory of you, because now that is really all there is. My memories.

I spent my youth in the blistering sun of your backyard, lounging lazily on the poolside amongst the orange, qumquat, lemon and everything-else fruit trees. The sun was unbearable against my electric white skin. Scorching, in fact. If I would have known then what I know now:

  • I would have enjoyed the rays of sun a lot more, because it brings happiness to life.
  • If I would have known how rare it is to now have bunches of random fruit trees in your backyard, fresh and blooming and alive, I would have eaten and eaten and eaten fruit until the juices spilt from my lips.
  • I wouldn’t have been so afraid to explore the possibilities outside.

It was a land of strange fantasies. Your house with its fruit trees and private pool. This place where the couches and chairs were always covered in plastic, perfect and unwelcoming, never sat upon. The many plants and untouched china, the dusty garage full of secret treasures and the foreign statues hiding in corners.

And then there was you. Amongst all of these things you seemed familiar and routine. There was the dry toast with marmalade for breakfast and the chocolate frozen yogurt with cereal for desert. You never played outside in the fruit trees amongst the pool. Often your days were spent lazing about the lounge room, gazing blankly at the stock market trades on T.V.

I heard stories of course. Stories of your youth seemed to be filled with a more adventurous time. I was told as a child that you traveled all over the world. You were educated and beautiful and rich. You explored countries and places, learned about people and listened to their stories. Your house was filled with treasures untold, the statues and books and furniture.

I wish I would have known how similar I would become. I would have asked you about your travels and the people, the books you had read. I would have asked for advice on money and life and boys. I would have demanded you tell me how I become fulfilled through all of this, how I would find enlightenment.

But.

But, you were already old when I was young and old still when I grew older. I wouldn’t have understood the advice that you gave me or appreciated your stories. I was more consumed with the scorching heat and made-up fantasies amongst the pool. I wouldn’t have appreciated your offer to pay for my education or the vast secrets that spanned your bookcases.

I have other memories too. Memories of you not getting out of bed, not remembering who I was or how I was connected to you. It was then you told me stories from your past, of a girl who reminded you so much of me. You took me back to that time, when my mother was a girl, the memories so fresh in your mind that for a second you were sure I was her and she was me.

Now.

Now, I am left with the memories of you, the memories of my youth. Three days ago you finally passed away, almost a century had passed, but you had already been gone from this place for such a long time. I have grieved the loss of you before.

Now that it has finally happened, I choose not to grieve, but to remember. I will remember with fondness the fantasy lands of my youth, the comfort of your home and the familiarity of your ways. I will remember the stories told and untold, your adventures of a strong, brave woman.

I am also like you, Great-Grandmother, strong and brave. I have stories told and untold that flow through my veins. I have explored and will continue to explore this world of people, life and knowledge, knowing you have done the same and are an amazing woman for it.