Drawing.
Grinding.
Looking back on 89 years.
Thinking.
Young smirk.
Exploring.
Training.
Wisdom.
Tangled.
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.
Bonding.
Tell me what you know about dreams,
Boys.
Spence.
Siblings.