Her hands are small, shrunken really, by 90 years of living, the arthritis has bent her fingers this way and that, rendering them less useful than they were when she was younger, another reason she resents growing old. They are covered in those little brown spots that your skin seems to develop with age, they say they are sun spots, but maybe really they are age spots and if you were to count all of them you would know how many years a person has. She is holding a ball-point pen with these flimsy fingers, doing the Saturday Stumper. [It is hot with the fire of love and hate, a constant clash that someone started a long time ago but no one has been able to end. It big and confusing and perfect, but most importantly it is full of hope, real, true hope, a way of living really.] "you are home." (both of you) "hmm?" she asks, slightly frustrated that her ears have failed you once again. "Nothing Grandma." And I scoot to the end of the couch and try to help her with the puzzle.
I wrote this during class yesterday, and I'd like to do more with it, and I keep forgetting to put aside time to write and then I get all sleepy and unmotivated.
I've been feeling so zen lately, minus a few less-than-zen incidents here and there, and I keep saying over-generalizing hippiesque statements about life and the world, it is strange, but i think i like it.
I will write more soon, maybe tomorrow be on the look outs for SADNESS DOESN'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE because it is the truth, and I want to do it justice.