Grey house, black shutters past Enjem’s…
It’s been just over a week since my grandmother passed… and I’m still trying to process.
Processing is difficult when you suffer from chronic impatience.
I lived half my life in my grandmother’s house. My grandfather built it with his own hands… and you can tell. There’s not a single level board in the place. Everything is at some slightly funky angle. The concrete steps un-level, the floors, un-level. the walls and ceilings… you get the idea. Because he was pinching every penny until Lincoln cried, the building materials he used may not have been top shelf. Heh… that shelf wouldn’t have been level anyway… everything would eventually have rolled off.
That house is a metaphor for life really. I think my grandfather was in such a hurry to start his life with his wife and family, that he did what he had to do to get to that point. So the house is on a slight tilt… so what? When has life ever been straight forward? There are far more turns and corners than there are straight shots. The memories made underneath that slightly tilted roof are just as good and bad.
