She was a brilliant beauty with gems sparkling in the sun, lipstick painted femininely and delicately, with eye brows arched with permanent curiosity and hair curled to soft bouncy perfection. She was sassy, bold and bright, witty and biting. She was glamorous and stoic and almost cold, removed in her sense she was everything I wasn’t. She could sing and looked beautiful in her beads and her colourful clothes, and she fit the stereotype of grandma with an almost ridiculous specificity, as she had floral coughs wrapped in plastic, dolls and doilies and teapots and silver spoons and cross stitches. She loved flowers and nature and pink. She only said I love you when I did first and never kissed my grandfather and always sung and travelled and gossiped with my mother. She was strong as she had three incredibly sensitive sons with an athletic easy husband and was not allowed to discipline her sons abundant mischieviousness. She dealt with there addictions and there exploitation. She was cheated on and forced to care for the house while managing her family’s affairs. She was mean but gentle and loving, telling us stories in gentle tones and playing us music while she patted our hands. Her humour remained despite her absent mind with age, and though she grew sad and childlike with dementia, she still managed to sass us and say I love you when we needed it. She was beautiful and elegant and loving. I miss her.
