The Last Time I Fed My Grandmother

The last time I saw my grandmother alive was not a coincidence. It couldn’t have been one, as I believe there is no such thing. It is so easy to be wise in hindsight, right? In reality, that day was an ordinary day, and I was just a typical, pissed teenager doing a chore because my mother made me. I remember every fiber of my body was protesting. I didn’t want to see her. Maybe, on a karmic level, the Universe wanted to provide an opportunity for me to see behind the scenes if you will. It gave me a one-time offer to experience my grandmother differently. To try to see her as she was, who she was. Someone (Karma? Universe? God? Angels?) wanted me to have at least one — just this one — mental picture where she did not hate me, humiliate me, call me names, yell at me, destroy my toys on purpose to hurt me, or talk shit about my parents to me. The bittersweet reality is, for me to see her as herself, Alzheimer’s disease had to deprive her of self and speech. But a higher power decided we had to have one final, unique, private dialogue between us, which partially — in a way — will remain a mystery forever, even for me, even though I was part of it. Karma, Universe, God, Angels, thank you for this memory. <a href="https://medium.com/the-memoirist/the-last-time-i-fed-my-grandmother-a04b88cbfde8">Read More</a>