sechan19: (tormenta)
  • I greatly suspect that now that the annual Mini Speech Party (mini-happyôkai), a term that is largely facetious, has concluded, most of the students will be significantly depowered for the remainder of the term - which at this point is four business days. It doesn't help, either, that they scheduled it for the same day as most graduate program applications are due. "General freakout" is a generous term for the disposition of some of my peers. Thank god I only have next year's Fellowships to feel squeamish about.
  • The day persists in not containing enough hours. It always seems that I can relax or I can grind, but not - somehow - both. And keeping up correspondence is right out. I want to write meaningful and considerate responses to all my loved ones who've been good enough to write me, but that takes time that I never seem to find. Part of this is no doubt related to the fact that if I let myself relax my brain tends to go into a total shutdown mode that requires hours to recover from. I'm hoping to bask in communication over the winter break.
  • I can't believe it's already been two years since we lost Grandma Tiny. I still miss her terribly, and I can't help wondering how she would view the current political atmosphere, how we would argue about said political atmosphere, and how she would nevertheless cluck at me over my living in a foreign country for a year because even though I'm a misguided liberal - I'm still her granddaughter, and she still loves me. Heaven's not a place I really believe in, but if there is one, I know that Tiny is keeping a seat warm for me. So I've got that going for me... which is nice.

Memory.

Jan. 9th, 2008 11:56 pm
sechan19: (tormenta)
My condo building is heated by an old boiler, and the warm air is piped through the walls to individual radiators. As a result, I rarely need to use said radiators. My condo is almost always warm.

I kicked the blankets off my feet just now, because they were hot and I can't sleep with hot feet. And then I remembered that the last thing I spoke to my grandmother about before she died (less than a month ago) was hot feet and the inability to sleep with such. She had grown restless in the hospital bed; fretting at her blankets; pulling them up, up, up.

So I said, "Your feet are hot, aren't they? Here, let me do that for you, Grandma." And I adjusted the blankets so that her feet were free of them.

"Is that better?" I asked, and she gave the fainted of nods and her eyes closed as if in relief. The stroke had robbed her of speech, but her mind was as sharp as ever.

"I could never sleep when my feet were hot," I told her. "Of course, you know," and involuntarily my voice dipped low into conspiratorial tones even though we were alone together in the room. "When I was a little girl I used to have such a dilemma. Because, you see, I couldn't sleep when my feet were hot, but if I uncovered them I couldn't sleep because I was afraid something was going to grab me!"

She seemed to smile at this.

"What a time I used to have," I said. "Trying to work it out. Of course, it wasn't until not too long ago that I realized you were right all along and that there was nothing out there in the dark waiting for me, but you know how I hate to give up my fancies. I don't suppose I'll ever completely give up the ghost."

Grandma's eyes closed again briefly.

"You going to try to get some sleep?" I asked, and again she nodded and her eyes slipped shut. So I patted her hand to let her know I was there and said, "I'm not going anywhere, so you rest now."

Later I held her hand as she died. And just now, kicking the blankets off my feet, I remembered all of that. I imagine I'll always think of her when my feet get too warm for my blankets, and for a long time I'll cry when I do. Just as I am now.

May 2014

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