From All Walks

My grandma passed away. She was a strong, Italian woman. Always to the point. Always spoke her mind. But with a heart as big as all outdoors.

One memory. As I grew older, she had trouble recognizing my voice on the phone. She often thought I was my father, who is also named John. Our phone conversations would usually start out like this:

Grandma: Hello, who’s this?

Me: Hey, it’s John.

Her: Oh, John. Where’s my daughter?

Me: I don’t know… maybe she’s at home.

Her: What do you mean, you don’t know?

Me: Well, I haven’t talked to my Mom today. I don’t know where she is.

Her: What? Who is this?

Me: It’s John.

Her: John? or Little John?

Me: It’s your Grandson.

Her: OHHHHHHH! HAHAHA, JOHN-JOHN! You sound like your daddy… BOY, YOU TRICKED A GRANDMA!

Feeling thankful for memories. Flowers in winter.