Another storm is coming in - the wind is rattling the windows while I fold clothes. The sky is dark. My Mom is between households, one foot at home, the other at my Grandma's place. It's hard for me to talk about the past few days. It's hard because my Grandma was a flawed, neglectful parent; she was critical of me, impossible to please. And we have her with us still, but under my Mom's care. Like a child.
Things are different now. She may not improve, return to her old self. I can't help but feel sad that she was too busy to make time for her family while she could. I won't lie: Beneath the quiet grief is a flicker of anger. There is so much to do and the burden feels heavy and our small extended family will be extended further. (My Grandma runs a business from home. I promise I will do a better job explaining the situation down the line.)
So. I look out the window and I reach for my kids. We talk about their day at school, fix snacks, admire the itty bitty pumpkin I picked up this afternoon. It's all I can do, I make these hours count.
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