In recent weeks, my beautiful paternal grandmother has graced my bedside table.
Because I didn’t know her, I can stare endlessly into her fascinating face. I have no letters of hers, or notes, or journals. I can only guess at who she was.
I’ve been told, she was well educated, and well dressed, and she was French, descended from Normandy and she was a Daughter of the American Revolution. That is all I know, but I look at her hands, and they are my hands, and the hands of my daughters.
I wonder what she would think of me? And what of the charming distractions, her great granddaughters, that I have so carefully raised to be modern?
Ten years ago, my cousin who was selling the last parcel on the family farm, called me from Chicago, and said, we’re shipping the family bible to you. I was honored they would entrust such a special family heirloom to me.
But even with this artifact, my grandmother and her lovely face remain a mystery. Yet, I carry her with me always.
Happy Mothers Day, love and blessings to all.