It’s not possible. Dead for thirty years; I smell her soap. I freeze at my desk, papers scattered around me, paused. As if we listen for her voice. Her words fall over my head as in childhood. She is not gone. “Imagine that!” my grandmother would say. I am, Grandma.
Carmen Farrell is an emerging writer and student at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia. Her work in progress concerns a flawed and worried mother raising a neurodiverse child and the judgments they encounter. Prior to taking up writing, she worked in school systems as a public relations specialist and advocate for students with diverse learning needs. See more at turnofphraseblog.com
So true…
As a grandma your story brought tears to my eyes-and that, to me, means I read a great story. Imagine that and keep writing! l look forward to your next stories.
Many thanks, I’m so glad you enjoyed it.
I believe this.
Nicely done, Carmen. Yep those moments are rare treasures – and I could immediately see my own grandma, one hand on hip, say, ‘Well, I’ll be!’
Thank you, this made me smile. Thank goodness for our memories…those we loved live on through them…
Very nice. Well written. Nice snap at the end.
Thank you so much.