Looking at my hand, it’s not my mother’s it reminds me of, but my grandmother Pearl’s. She instilled about the only feelings of safety to be had as a child. Being home, meant being preyed upon, never knowing when the next attack would occur.

Unfortunately, Chet followed me to grandma’s house for overnight’s and attacked me there too. But mostly it was my younger brother and me who stayed the night, so most memories are of her loving presence, and a stable routine that was not found in the chaos at home right down the same road;

the quarter she gave each week for school to put into the banking account, watching it grow as the years passed.

checking homework every night and helping me to understand my mistakes.

the warm air blowing under the table from the wall heater as we ate our breakfast after choosing which little box of cereal to eat. The fond memories are endless…

My gold wedding band, just like hers that she wore on thin gnarled hands clasped across each other on her lap telling me stories of the olden days out west when traveling on horseback was the norm. Even today at her homestead there still are iron rings drilled into the tall pines where carriages were hooked up, though she traveled from this world long ago.

I cannot help wondering what my life would have been without her, one place where love, safety, and security flowed. My grandmother had a hard life, losing her husband during the flu pandemic when her two children were just toddlers. But she had peace inside her despite the hardships and struggles, because, well, because she didn’t stray from true values and lived by her core rules. My mother? My mother died never finding her peace, or maybe, hopefully, in the moments just before death?

She popped out babies one after another too drunk for either one of them to go that dresser drawer and put on the rubbers I once found, filling them up with water thinking they were balloons. But then the babies grew, dad died so young, and she was left with 8 of us. Her mantra, all 8 kids, as if such an albatross around her neck. She had said many times how she couldn’t wait for them all to leave. No wonder we are so fucked up.

There was a book I read years earlier, ‘Cheaper by the Dozen.’ That family lost their father too. But they didn’t disintegrate after his death. They came closer together in love and support. I so longed for that while reading, wondering why our family couldn’t do that too.

My mother could not find her peace. She couldn’t forgive herself? There was too much to forgive? That she didn’t completely grow from bitterness to acceptance? I don’t know which, or perhaps all. Isn’t there grace for everyone?  “Amazing grace! how sweet the sound, That saved a wretchlike me!”

I want to find my peace and pray to find my way.

2 thoughts on “AMAZING GRACE

  1. Such lovely memories of your grandmother. I never knew my grandparents (the last one died when I was 5 and I barely have a shadow of a memory of her), but my best friend’s mother became my refuge. It took my mother until after her death to find peace. I haven’t checked on her in a few years with a medium I know, but I’m pretty sure she’s good now. I’m glad you’re working your way toward peace, even if it’s sometimes elusive.

    Liked by 1 person

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