Antique malls remind me of my Granny. Granny would have been obsessed with Crazy Daisy Antiques. Maybe if I’d been less of a self-involved brat as a teen and college student I would have taken the time to take her there and help her explore this amazing city before she died.
When I think of Granny it tastes sweet, like hot tea laced with honey on the cold porch with her. Some of my best memories are sitting on a porch swing with her reading aloud to me, and telling me stories about her childhood in the hills of Kentucky. And then the memory tastes bitter, like my own regret. She was the kindest and most unassumingly beautiful person I have ever known, and she squandered her love on me. I did not deserve it. I could work my whole life and never deserve it.
When I went to Crazy Daisy the last time, her dishes were there. Not hers specifically, but the same dishes she had. And suddenly I couldn’t stop crying. I just can’t stand that things like this survive, cups and saucers and storybooks and typewriters, and she’s gone, and I can’t ever tell her how sorry I am. I can’t ever take her to my favorite coffee shop or antique mall.
It never gets better, it never gets less. I just learn to ignore it, and then I turn the corner and my grief is still there, big as the moon and twice as bright.