≡ My Grandmother ≡

As the years passed, the warm and radiant sunshine that previously symbolized my grandmother's visit began to fade, revealing the blistering sunburn that seethed underneath.  With my advancing age, her entrance into my life now meant I had to share one of my most prized possessions--my bedroom--and even worse, my double bed. 

Perceiving my grandmother's coming as an invasion of my personal space, for me, our roommate situation was rife with problems.  For starters, my grandmother snored like a banshee, but that was the least of my complaints.  More disturbing to me was the fact that just as my grandmother wanted to buy everything for me, she also wanted to do everything for me.  She saw this as being kind and helpful; my burgeoning need for independence saw this as being condescending and annoying.  Despite her good intentions, I couldn't stand my grandmother's constant desire to fulfill my every need.

I remember one particular instance in which her helpfulness sent me over the edge.  In my pre-teen days, I had an addiction to  order, which compelled me to devise a very specific organizational system for my dresser drawers (Who am I kidding--I'm still addicted to order, which explains why I became a librarian).  One day when I had somehow let my guard down and left my grandmother alone in my room, she decided to put away all of my newly cleaned clothes.  Of course, ignorant of the strict system governing my dresser, she put them in all the wrong places.  Upon discovering the trauma of this crime scene, I reacted as maturely as any 12 year old would:  while she was in the room, I took out every article of clothing that was misfiled, said "This is in the wrong place," in my snottiest tone, and put it in the correct drawer.

I will never forget the look of utter shock and disappointment on my Grandmother's face.  Yet, in her characteristically non-confrontational style, she did not express one admonishing word.  Instead, she responded in the worst way possible: she apologized.

I instantly realized the error of my ways, and how much I had hurt my grandmother's feelings, but I couldn't will myself to care.  In my selfish eyes, maintaining my sense of independence and my strict organizational system mattered more than my grandmother's feelings. 

Although I didn't realize it at the time, this event symbolized the development of a crack in the relationship between me and my grandmother--a crack based on my urgent desire to grow up and her unwillingness to let go of me as a child.  I was my grandmother's youngest grandchild--her last chance to fulfill her insatiable need to nurture, and she wasn't going to let that go without a fight. 

As I made my way into my teenage years, our battle of wills deepened from a crack into a great divide--an irrevocable schism that no amount of sunshine, laughter, or gifts could repair.