I fell asleep one night and got a really clear picture of my Grandmother sitting in her favorite green Adirondack chair on her porch. With her gray streaked, thinning hair rolled into a bun. Her loose house dress on. Her brown all seeing eyes, on the sea.
It occurred to me that she’d been haunting me for a while. Gradually building up and solidifying her presence. Over time when the random voice would sound inside my head. It was her voice. When out of my mouth would come her sayings.
Now I see her clearly. So clearly in fact that when her mouth moves I can hear her voice. That is, when she talks. You see my grandmother was a listener.
She listened more than she ever spoke. She watched all those around her with an eagle, if kind eye. The weight of it fell upon you only when she wished it. She saw deeper than anyone ever wanted to admit. When she spoke more often than not, we had to listen.
It hurt more often than not, that truth. She wrapped it in her sayings, her parables. In the end they were just that, truth.
Be still. Be quiet. Listen.