09 February 2010

My Writings

I had these posted on my PR Course blog, but I figured I would post it on this blog, for all 3 followers I have. :)

Enjoy!

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I started writing this piece with someone completely different in mind. Then it evolved into someone else, and by the time I was finished, I realized I had taken out certian aspects of three of my closest friends that had something in common with my grandmother, who passed away on March 21, 2003.

The three people I had originally thought this was going to be, and in order are: Amanda, Sarah, and my mother, Judy.

Of course after realizing this was now about my grandmother when I had edited it, I brought the whole thing together, but there are parts of Mom, Amanda and Sarah in there somewhere.

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Elizabeth Mackenzie Murphy

Her hair used to be long and brown, then silver, and then white. Her glasses never changed in the 19 years I knew her. The lenses perhaps, but the round, owlish frames were an unvarying reminder that she would be a constant in a life that was wrought with change. Her gaze never faltered when looking at me with the love that only a grandmother could share with her grandchild.

She was someone that I trusted completely. When I was with her, I got that feeling inside me, like a six-year old after bouncing up and down in the big balloon castle for those precious three and a half minutes – like I had just climbed to the moon and floated back down.

She relaxed me. Speaking with her let my mind explore places and times I’d never seen before. Those conversations encouraged me to speak freely about the things I would have normally kept to myself.

She exasperated me with her unwavering strength and conviction about who she was in the world, and her place. She had a purpose in her life and she followed her path without hesitation.

She bossed me around. Not because she felt that she needed to be dominating, but because it’s simply what grandmothers do. She bossed me around since I was old enough to speak, and she always told me that it was only for my best interests that I kept my fingers out of my food, brushed my hair and teeth, and always wore clean underwear (because you never know when you’re going to get hit by a bus and you’ll want to have clean underpants for that glorious occasion).

Her voice was like sandpaper, with a hint of butter underneath. You knew that she used to have a gorgeous voice, tarnished now with the cruel reminder that she was no longer the woman she once was. Her height had diminished with her age, towering in her twenties at a little over six feet; at the age of 84, she was a feeble five feet, nine inches.

She was the most stubborn woman I had ever had the blessing of knowing. It made me realize that genetics are truly phenomenal, and that my mother and I have both inherited more from her than we ever thought possible. It aggravated her more than anyone else that she could no longer do the things she had routinely done for the last 80 years.

It broke my mother’s heart the day she had to go into the nursing home – cursing and swearing that she didn’t need to be there, that she could take care of herself, and everyone else, like she had always done. After the first week, she had become everyone’s favourite, like we knew she would.

Sunday’s at Nan’s house turned into weekly trips to the hospital-esque home. Homemade birthday cakes, lovingly crafted by Nan’s experienced hands, were replaced with cards signed hastily by my mother, and I watched as Nan drifted further and further into her own solitude.

After four years, Nan was no longer the person I had idolized as a child, but someone whom I cared for as an adult. The only thing that remained was the frame – the foundation of a house long abandoned, crumbling at the seams.

When she died on that cold, winter’s day, my mother, sister and I held each onto each other and remembered her for who she was when she was strong of body and mind.

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