A Grandmothers love

Her life.
A trial run for yours.
An opportunity to pass down the most important of lessons.
The most critical of emotions.

Her job? Simple.
To solidify your ground.
To offer a stable point for you to jump.
A home base. Safety.

To know you’re loved.
To know you’re thought of. Prayed for.

If well-meaning were tangible,
she built a fort around you.
A moat beneath your walls.

If warmth were transferable,
her smile reminded you of a fire on a cold, rainy night.

If confidence could be grown,
she watered yours.
To the flowering of arrogance, sometimes.

You always knew she would go first.
That you'd be there when she passed.
Ready to remember the warmth. The love.
The endless, unconditional belief
that in her eyes,
you were superhuman.

So much love, you blushed.
She must be mistaken.
No one has ever loved you that much. Not even you.

What do we take with us from a woman so strong?

We love first.

We love until the world relents.

And we invite everyone to our party.

Some of us are lucky enough to be loved by our grandmothers. To feel a warmth and a depth of love so unencumbered by the complexity of parenthood or the daily rush of life’s needs. To understand what unconditional means. What love means. And what home means.

A grandmother’s love is something like true home. Beyond the physical notion of a house. A home as in where you truly come from. What you stand for. Where you fall to when you don’t succeed. And where you return to when you do.

The asuridness that there is always someone in your corner. No matter how bad your mistakes. No matter the outcome of your attempted triumphs.

Some of us are lucky enough to have this. Some of us are lucky enough to feel this loss when they move on. To have had the chance to appreciate the opportunities they have given us. The ground they have built up around us.

Their prayers echo around us in the night. Standing us upright in the quiet. Forcing the world to relent to the warmth of love.