The children from the house facing mine are in the street flying a kite. When I was the same age, my grandmother passed away. Shortly after, I learned how to fly a kite. Afterwards, I would ask my mother to pack my kite into the trunk of her car and I would fly it on the cemetery grounds after reciting an Our Father and Hail Mary beside my grandmother’s grave. I can’t remember the last time I went to see her.
Not being kind to my grandmother haunts me. I was only seven when she died, but I never liked being in her arms. I blamed a lot of things that went wrong on her. But one aspect of her that amazed me was her waist-length salt and pepper hair. She used to wear it in a bun,and every morning she’d unwind that bun to comb her hair and I would be sitting at her feet watching the phenomenon.
After she died, I found her belongings that my mother could bear to keep in the drawers of the china cabinet. There were tubes of half-used lotion, her gigantic eyeglasses from the eighties, and several other items I cannot recall. We buried our only Bible with her. I wish I could bury my regret.