Over the last few months we have been working on cleaning out my Grandma's house. She hasn't lived there in years, and neither have I. But, every time I'm there the memories are so strong, I am almost always lead to tears. I'm not sure why this is exactly. I really only have treasured memories there. Nothing bad... you see my grandma (gran as I called her) (my girls call her Gigi) was my everything. There was no place I'd rather be in the whole world than at her house, in her presence. She was fun, in a sort of matter of fact way. She always had a "routine" and things didn't veer off of that routine much, but she always had time. Time to play, time to go on an adventure, time to listen, time to do whatever I wanted to. She gave me the greatest gift anyone can ever give, she gave me her time. In that time, I gave her my heart, and she gave me hers. She didn't preach at me... but she lived an exemplary life, that without words made me want to make her proud.
Anyway, as we were cleaning things out mom hands me this tacky bear book and says we need to read this... (grandma collected a lot of bears) I wasn't sure if it was more "junk", but when I opened it's pages I realized it was a true "treasure".
It was her journal. From the 80's she started it the day she retired from the State.
In reading those pages, I could hear her words. I could hear her speak. I could hear her heart. I could remember 1000 other memories/days that I had forgotten. It wasn't a sentimental kind of journal. More the kind that records the days. That's how she liked it. Reading back over those days, in her words, written in her handwriting, was a gift. I miss her a lot. There are a lot of days I wish I could walk back through her back door for a glass of sun tea and sit for a talk... I guess I'll have to settle for the memories instead.