tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5850412796909333284.post4130645197402158272..comments2019-05-25T14:59:50.218-04:00Comments on Get your creativity flowing...: Day 22 ChallengeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11947876013414315168noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5850412796909333284.post-75276358447080667912013-05-10T07:01:56.897-04:002013-05-10T07:01:56.897-04:00The entry above was posted on my Facebook Page (I ...The entry above was posted on my Facebook Page (I put a copy of my blog entries there as well) and was written by Dawn K.<br /><br />My quick response to her was she could have warned me, because she made me cry. <br /><br />I'm not sure if this is a true story or one of Dawn's imagination, but it hit home for me. A few years ago I lost one grandmother in December, another in January and the last one in August. I was only involved with cleaning out one of their homes, but this story brought back all the emotions I was feeling while I was doing it. If this is a true account of what happened, then I must praise Dawn even more for being so brave for posting so the world could feel her pain. My own challenge answer is a work of pure fiction, because I was not brave enough to revisit my own pain.<br /><br />Kudos to you Dawn for producing an emotionally moving piece within a ten minute writing exercise! Just imagine what you would be able to do with more time.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11947876013414315168noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5850412796909333284.post-25709538566793840392013-05-09T14:05:38.850-04:002013-05-09T14:05:38.850-04:00I've put it off long enough. Gram's been g...I've put it off long enough. Gram's been gone a few months now, and the house is on the market. With the cousins dealing with the downstairs rooms, I volunteered to tackle the attic. Masochistic, maybe, but the best way to face the memories. The attic was not just a storage place, but set up like a comfortable, soothing retreat from the world. <br />I can still see Gram sitting in her rocker by the big bay window, a bag of yarn on the floor by her feet. I hear the clicking of the knitting needles as she teaches me the intricate stitches.<br />Gram's desk. I feel my eyes filling, and the pain of her loss crashing down on me. The words on her papers blur; I impatiently wipe the tears away, realizing that I had a job to do, the last thing Gram asked me to do.<br />Picking up a picture of us taken when I was ten, I laugh at the memory of that summer. Tending the garden, we were by the tomato plants. The photo was snapped just as she was giving me a cherry tomato, explaining every garden had to have one plant so you have something to snack on while you are working. <br />Packing her papers to go thru at home, I felt a moment of regret that I was closer to my grandmother than my mother, her daughter. She was the one I went to when I had something good to share, when there was something to learn, or when the cousins, being all boys, picked too hard. Gram was always there. <br />The desk was almost empty now, one drawer left to go. Pulling it open, there is only one book in it, a large notebinder with hundreds of pages of handwritten notes. They are Gram's recipes, her knitting patterns, sketches for sewing patterns. All the things she showed me to do while growing up. A wealth of knowledge collected over a lifetime. Knowing I should give it to my mother, I frown and think how she'll stick it on a shelf and forget it. Mom has a brown thumb and can burn water! Closing the book, a loose page edged out. It was the first page, and all it had on it was four words. For You, My Granddaughter.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com