A bit ago, while I was in my feelings about the anniversary of my grandmother's passing, I wrote something very flippant about my Penzo grandmother. I don't regret it because it is how I genuinely feel; she and I don't have a real relationship. But I should never have disrespected her in that fashion. My family raised me better than that. GrandMami and Papi raised me better than that.
So last week, on the way home, I called my aunt to say I'd be stopping over on Saturday. I pulled myself out of bed, bought her some yellow roses (according to Mami they're the only acceptable flowers to bring someone) and spent a few hours chatting with her. I told her about K & N and my aunt and grandmother informed me that one of our ancestors was a stolen Indian (Native American) woman. Child. The more stories I hear about my ancestors the higher my mutt factor increases. I don't know if this was a true story or not, but I enjoyed hearing it. More puzzle pieces. Bigger puzzles.
I decided, this woman won't live much longer. She probably doesn't even remember treating me like a delicate flower to be kept at arms length instead of family. I might as well get to know her and learn my family history before it's too late. I know GrandMami would approve of me behaving like a respectful granddaughter, so I do this in her name. Saturday night I had a dream about her apartment again. It was like a message. Like, she's pleased with me.
Maybe next time she'll even stop through and give me a tight agua-florida-scented hug.
In other news, my cousin's youngest son...LAWDAMERCY. I've never wanted to shake a child more in my life. I had to WOOSAH so many times. I have never appreciated my children more...
*smooches...digging deeper to be and do better*
honestly, it's the only way to honor those who sacrificed everything for me.