I called my Mother yesterday, asking her if she had a copy of my birth certificate. I couldn’t find the one I had, and I need it for Goth Cruise. She said she had it in my folder, and figured it was time to go ahead and give me the whole thing.
Not only is my birth certificate in it, but so were report cards…old ID cards…photos…
Christmas letters, to be exact. Letters my Grandmother wrote every year, and which my Mother started writing after she died.
I just got finished reading little snippets of my entire life up until now.
I have a lot of emotions going through my head. One thing that strikes me, though…
My grandmother…understood me. Very, very well.
I had no idea.
But she…she knew. Knew what was going through my head. Saw me getting bored with school long before it happened. Saw the potential I had for being overweight. She…
She knew me so well…and I can’t say the same for her. Most of my memories of her are of a bitter, sometimes mean, old woman who was dying from cancer.
And yet…Think about it, Mike. How could a woman like that have been responsible for someone like your Mother?
This was the most amazing, and completely unintended, gift I could have gotten. But I can’t decide whether it’s made me happy or miserable.
The party was a smashing success.
Thank you to all who came, and to all who couldn’t…We hope to see you next year.
Merry Christmas, my friends.