The Hummingbird

A brief boost to my self-esteem has taken place; my friend assures me that my writing is good and that he has received word of it being good. Which seemed strange to me as I have actually never received much in the way of compliments other than from those I perceive as good friends, and therefore must compliment me on a daily basis on pain of death. Nevertheless, it was a nice thing to hear, and it was a wonderful illusion to bask in.

Me? A good writer? Most definitely! Shall I not let my creativity shine? Shall I not fill a page with brilliance? Indeed, this kind of genius can't go unnoticed. I am inspired to write, drugged on the notion that my words might actually be halfway coherent.

Of course, my entirely stoned muses aren't the most trustworthy kind. They tell me I must write, but are lost on the subject. Write when? Why, now. But write what? Beats me.

My grandmother just died. I would write about her, except I have not seen her for many years. Her death strikes me less than it should. Even the message of her death was less than emotional; my mother sent me the news via email; "Thought you should know my mother died." Nice.

I know Grandma's health had declined, her mental state having somewhat deteriorated, though as far as I know not so much that it was completely debilitating. I do not know how well Grandfather treated her, and can only hope it was well, for between my mother's words and my own hopes and faith in humanity, I cannot fully trust in much without proof.

But I do remember one thing about her, when she was younger and I was just a small child.

Beanie Babies were all the rage. I loved them like every other kid. I especially favored a particular dragon. Scorch, or something of that nature. Grandma and I were walking through something of a Saturday market, and one stand was selling Scorch. Grandma noticed I wanted it, and offered to buy it for me. I declined, saying my mother would not want her to. I don't remember why, but I believe I was under the impression that my mother was not particularly fond of me that day. As a mother, she is obligated to feel that way for at least one day every week.

Grandma persisted only slightly, and of course, she and I left Scorch behind.

The following Christmas, I opened a box to find something I had wanted and did not expect to get - there was Scorch, in all his brown-furred glory (beanie dragons did not have scales), waiting to be hugged. My grandmother did what would not be done again for a dozen years; remembering what I wanted and getting it for me, simply because she cared and wanted me to have it.

It wasn't the ONLY thing she gave to me, but it was the only thing I guarded for many years and considered non-expendable because I remember how much I wanted him then. You don't give p or lose those things easily. It did not occur to me that someday I would not be seeing Scorch sitting in my room.

It did not occur to me either that I would never see Grandma again. I don't know where Scorch is now. I have a collection of stuffed animals, and somehow, he did not stay with me. It did not occur to me then that he would be the last thing to remind me of her.

Because my family does not take pictures. We stay away from the phone. Emails are some kind of black sorcery. Our family is as detached as detached gets, to the point I don't even know my relatives' names or my parents' birthdays.

So all I can hope is that Grandma is young and healthy and vital again, and that Scorch is making some kid happy as I was the day he was given to me.

Rest well, Grandma. You were, quite simply, a beautiful woman.