on becoming my grandmother

I tackled the garage today. It should be an art room/ workshop but over the past couple of months it reverted right back to a store area.

I missed the space, and knew I would need go through it anyway, so why not when the sun was shining?

I found three suitcases in one corner. One was full of plastic bottles, one was full of cardboard and one full of margarine tubs.

My Grandmother would use the latter to make crochet Spring baskets. Still, I'm pretty sure she only made five or six, never did she make forty of them. I took them to the recycle centre with an uneasy feeling. I knew I wouldn't be using them, but it felt so wrong chucking them.

I worried that I would get home and find a use for some of it as soon as I walked through the door.

It was as I dithered I remembered my grandmothers spare room, and the years of stuff she had accumulated. Boxes and boxes of newpapers from three decades ago, kept in case she needed them to light the fire.

I know my destiny, and I am happy with it.

But I am not prepared to become my Grandmother just yet.