We had moved from Cairo to Mt. Vernon, Illinois, away from my grandmother when I was eight years old. I missed her terribly. I was told I was her favorite grandchild; she was my favorite “Granny.” She was my Father’s mother.
Two years later my mother and father separated and they were soon divorced. I felt as if my world was falling apart. My heart ached for that part of me that was slipping away. Mother must have sensed my longing, for she would take my little brother and me back to visit my Granny on occasions, even after the divorce.
I was always aware Granny loved us. It was something you could feel with your heart, even when your world was turned upside down.
She didn’t live in a fancy house or have expensive things, but I never noticed; I just knew she loved me and I loved her back.
We had lived, for a time, next door to her and grandpa in a duplex while my father was away during World War II.
Granny had never had very much in the way of money or material things. But it was the little things she gave me that had always mattered. Things like letting me dip my fingers in the sugar bowl, which was always sitting on her table or the coffee she let me sip from her cup. She allowed me to sit on top of her kitchen table as I partook ofthose privileges.
Granny took the time to explain the function of her weather vane, hanging on the wall, which predicted the upcoming weather. How that little wooden boy and girl knew what door to come out of, when it was going to rain, amazed me. But Granny understood.
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