I am still SO angry. I hadn't realized. It's easy to push something back when it's not in your face but it's been brewing there at the back of my living all this time and when I looked her in the eyes today I knew the truth...I am still bruised.
She's so sweet and her eighty-nine years frolic along her aura and she gushes over the kids and she "Oh, time just flies by so fast, doesn't it?" And when I hug her I want to cry because I hate her nearly as much as I love her and I can't make sense of myself being all kind and all "Oh, it really does!" And I hate myself as much as she loves me.
She shows me the round pillow she crocheted and gifted to my mother like a child displaying school artwork. "Must've taken me two weeks," she tells me.
I pull at a loose thread. I imagine pulling it - yanking out from it's tight tucked stitching - pulling and pulling and knotting it up and curling it round into a right mess and dropping it at her feet and saying, "I made this for you. This is my art. I call it Grandpa."