Helen Helen Helen.

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for being a loyal reader (even when I swear). I am hubbering in front of this screen, thinking of you, wearing a ratty shirt that should have been washed and folded and forgotten days ago. Scrambled eggs with dill in a bowl is cradled in my lap and coincidentally warming me up. Just because I forget to email, doesn't mean that I forget [you]. Thank you for the wise words this week, I have been repeating "just relax and be kind" in my brain for days now. Thank you.

Sometimes during the off hours in the day when my mind wanders, I begin to dream of raising six kids on an acreage somewhere green and warm, tending roses and a ridiculously giant garden with a noteworthy meticulousness. Hair flying, some hymn or childhood lullaby being sung while bread rises on the kitchen counter under a tea towel.

I think of you; outside measuring baby feet in guilty footprints in the mud, heaping and instilling lesson upon lesson in the brains of your unsuspecting children even though you are mad as hell at the fire-headed liar who traipsed through the house with muddy feet in the first place. I want to be like you. I want to be like your daughters. I want to be like my mother. With your single email (yes, she emails) you have pulled me through a trying week and reminded me to be nice. Be kind, be patient, relax. "Love will find you", she writes and I sigh while reading. Your advice has prompted me to ignore the fact that this is the time of year where loneliness normally takes the wheel. In comes the thought of you driving your dad's truck for the first time as a twelve year old without a hot clue as to the difference between reverse and fourth, but you still did it. Braids swinging.

I am channeling everything I have, every feeling and intention into projects. Fruition is the word of the season. Between the upcoming art shows and Printmaking classes and gospel jamborees, between the late night dinners and bottles of wine, between the feet dancing on dust caked hardwood and trips into the bush with appreciative people, there will be no spare time to weep into pillow cases, twiddle one's thumbs, or grieve the thief who stole my heart. Who needs a heart anyway? My prince will come, yours did. Look at you now: grandchild number a million on the way, your recipes passing between eager hands like some welcomed plague, bodies sleeping under your handmade quilts, imagined scenes of your childhood playing out like a picture show in my head when I am sad.

Thank you. Teach me everything you know, quick.

With much love that only appreciates with time, Megsie.