The strangest times
This morning I was on the train, reading a magazine when I came over an article about an Italian grandmother. I read this line, “Alda peeling fresh figs from her own trees for dessert” and stopped.
All I could see for a few seconds was my own grandmother’s hands at her kitchen table in Brooklyn, peeling an orange and discarding the peel. I could see her hands so clearly- I think I’d know them anywhere.
Sadness can just hit you at the strangest times. I wanted to call my mother or text her, wanted to tell her what I just saw, what I felt. I experienced that tug-of-war between wanting her to know what had happened, that I thought of her mother and missed her so much in the span of a few short seconds that the ache hasn’t really gone away all morning, and not wanting to make her sad, not wishing to push my sadness onto her if she woke up today feeling better than she did yesterday and the day before that.
Entry filed under: Random Bits.