What you love

If you read my stuff, you know I like to talk about love. I love lots of things, and lots of people. Started out like that. When I was very, very young, I had a big family. Mom and Dad, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great grandparents. Very few are still living. I miss those who are gone. I mean I really, really miss them. Sometimes I especially miss some more than others. Today I miss my paternal grandmother. I'd give a year of what's left of my life to sit with her for another day. To talk and listen, to hear her voice, to enjoy her laughter. She was Eastern Cherokee, a Vincent, a Roll Indian. She was beautiful and intelligent. She was wise and funny. She had a hard life. She never complained. Grandmother was good at whatever she chose to do. When she wanted to shoot a rifle, she could hit whatever she aimed for. When she wanted to work a crossword puzzle, she could solve all the boxes correctly. When she wanted to get her opinions across, she could do so with grace and good manners. And when she was angry, she could chew up her opponent and spit them out before they knew what happened. She and I were similar in most ways, according to all my relatives, who nicknamed me Little Eula. My grandmother told me I was her favorite. She may have told my cousins they were her favorites, as well. Didn't matter to me. She and I were Eula and Little Eula. Of course, I gradually pulled up to match her height. Both of us stood five feet ten inches, thin, pronounced cheek bones, dark eyes, dark hair, ivory yellow skin. She died young, she was in her early sixties. My father dug out old photographs of Grandmother and when I saw them I was quite surprised. When I looked at her youthful pictures, I was looking at myself. I occasionally showed her youthful pictures to friends who knew me most of my life, and they always thought she was me. They could not explain the very old cars, or very odd clothing styles. I actually argued with one lifelong friend, who never did accept that Grandmother's pictures were not photographs of me. I was not long out of college when she died. But I will never forget that morning. At three a.m. I awoke to find her sitting on the edge of my bed. She told me she loved me. She told me to honor my Indian blood. She said it was my best blood. And then she disappeared. The phone rang. I picked it up. I heard my father's voice telling me Grandmother had died. I told Dad I knew. I told him she'd stopped by a few seconds earlier to see me before she began her transition journey. And I missed her like I would miss oxygen. Today I miss her. Grandmother was unconditional love. I loved her more than the sun and the moon. I miss her.