My grandmother always seemed a proper respectable old lady to me. When mother flew in a rage and cursed like a sailor, she was always there to soften the blow. This was not often, but it really leaves an imprint on the memories of a child. Grandma spent most of her time sitting in her rocking chair with her black patten purse close by. How she raise seven boys and a girl on a farm, I can scarce imagine. To me her existence was the domain of her chair. She was sitting in her room to greet us when we arrive home from school. She was there so I could sit at her feet and have her braid my long hair. She could be counted on to pay us to put the cat outside. She was always still and quiet but had such a way of making you feel important just because she listened.
soft puddles of grey
drawing you in