Sitting on the couch I suddenly wonder. What would my grandmother think if she saw me now; covered with a blanket, comfortable snuggled into the pillows with a cup of tea in my hands. What would she think if we could talk just one more time…?
The last time we spoke, a moment of which I was fully aware that it would be the very last, she thanked me. Her grip on my hand was still so strong but her body had been failing her for quite a while at that time. My grandmother, almost 86 when she passed away, had heard so much of what I told her over the last three years of her life. She had been suprisingly supportive towards me. I knew from stories how stern she could be, how harsh. It was scary to tell her I was bisexual, and it was fun to plan my Scotland trip with her. I never got to show her the pictures, she passed away six months before I left. And I never got the chance to tell her about all the other discoveries I made in the two years she has now been gone. That I found out I like writing multilinear stories, that I discovered working-life can be tough as nails, that sending your manuscript to a publishing house is bloody scary, that I met some awesome new friends that she probably would have criticized anyway, that I came out as actually being gay on the first day of a heatstroke that stuck with the Netherlands for almost 6 straight weeks last summer.
But mostly I wonder if she would have visited my new appartment, my first ever. In the end she couldn’t walk anymore but the complex has an elevator and my house consists of one floor. Maybe she would have, maybe I would have just shown her pictures. I will never know.
It is weird, but from time to time I think about her. About how she would’ve reacted, what she would’ve thought and said. And I wonder, just wonder.
Because it’s been two years today, and the answers will never come.