old eyes, new eyes.

so, i managed to miss an entry already. i had the intention of writing yesterday, but i wasn't home long enough to do it. i spent five hours in a hair salon, bleaching the holy hell out of my hair and catching up on my reading of The Three Philosophical Poets. very good book, by the way. it's giving me new insight into the nobility of properly written poetry. quite influential. i was shocked to see it was only $2.95 after a three-time discount at Barnes and Noble. real injustice, there...

anyway, i took a trip down to the Southern Tier today with my parents. Kyle came as well, poor kid, although i think the photos he took made up for the 2 hours of awkward silence-and-repeated-question patterning. the overall status is that my  grandmother is crazier, my great grandmother is older, and the dog is fatter than the last time we saw them. which is nothing new.

the thing that got my attention, though, was my great grandmother's apartment. not because it's cute, and not because it's an old, converted church, but because every aspect of it is a reflection of some aspect of her.

i'll spell it out for you.

my great grandmother was born and raised in Brooklyn. we have no idea who, how, or where her father was. her mother (whom we think was from Poland, or if not, probably a second gen) was killed one day while crossing the street to go to the store. my great grandmother and her siblings watched out the window as she got hit by a bus. thus, the parent-less children went to a Catholic orphanage where they were raised by nuns. in turn, my great grandmother is extremely Catholic (although, in the true sense of a Christian, not so much the corrupt kind) and believes she owes her life to the church and to the people around her.

it's ironic how she's come to live in a church. and how her life has been extended to a long 92 years. her eyes are failing her, she's nearly blind. she's diabetic, allergic to anything red, takes over twelve medications daily and has poor circulation. she's shrunk to about 4 feet tall, and her hair is about as white as cotton. but every wrinkle in her face tells a story, and every smile is honest. and that is quite a woman.

while i was at her apartment, i kept noticing the light. it was streaming in and out through windows, weaving around the house, diving in and out through the stained glass and coloring every old photograph, every knick-knack, every porcelain humming bird and rosary with this incredibly ethereal glow. there was an energy there that often is not, and it opened my eyes to see the beauty in the details of everything surrounding this woman, telling of who she is and how she has lived. and knowing the history of it all, well, that just made the story even richer. so even if she can't see how wonderful she is to us, at least i can try to see it for her.