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"He'll grow out of it," she said. And it blindsided me. (pause) We'd had a great day together. It had reminded me of when I was so much younger and we'd gone out shopping because she loved to shop and I loved to be around her. She paid so much attention to you...I genuinely felt that she would indulge my every whim. (pause) When I'd first come out, my mother told her - she thought it would be better that way - and for a couple of months my grandmother disowned me. Never mind that I'd visited her at least once a week in high school. Never mind that of her five grandchildren, I was the one who consistently played the role of a loving, obedient grandchild. (pause) And I think it was that which finally drew her back to me; she realized that she would die completely alone and forgotten by her grandchildren if she didn't reach out to me. So for a little under two years we got along just as we always had. I really felt that she'd made real progress towards accepting me. I visited her whenever I could during college and maintained contact moreso, again, than any of my cousins. I considered writing a play based, somewhat, on her life because I found her age and generation fascinating. (pause) And with one careless sentence she managed to take away all that progress and she became a bitter, old hulk that cared only for herself. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I was frozen. I just stood there unable to believe that she could be so thoughtless...so cruel...so...of her age. I thought she was different; I thought I had caused her to think differently. I was wrong, so very wrong. Eventually the numb feeling I had went away and was replaced by a heavy sadness. I could feel every breath I took. We left the store shortly after and she commented on my silence in the car. Again, I couldn't think of anything and so I said I was concentrating on driving. When she got out of the car, that frail woman looked back on me and told me she loved me and we said goodbye. I told her I loved her...and I did. As I drove home, I knew that while she meant what she said and that I couldn't excuse her for it, she hadn't meant to hurt me that directly. So numbness had turned to sadness had turned to rationalization. She would always think of me as a five-year-old boy regardless of what I did. But when I told my mother about it and she instantly negated it by saying, "She loves you. Remember, Fred, she is 85," I lost it. I stomped my foot and ran. And for that instant was the only time I really felt angry about the whole thing. This was my pain and for her to diffuse it...to cast it off by saying she was set in her ways was not what I needed to hear nor what she needed to say. I would have preferred she said nothing rather than to accept it and blame it on something as coincidental as age and blood relation. Perhaps I overreacted...but I feel I was within my rights. |
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