Shifting sands

Somewhere out there must be a big black hole sucking up time. Where does it all go? Wasn't it just yesterday, my GG and I were digging in the dirt near Yellowstone and looking for rubies? My hair french braided. Hers fashioned in silvery curls-- lots of them. Even though it was a beautiful shade of silver and not a more youthful chestnut or blonde, I was secretly jealous. Her hair at 63 made Rapunzel look like a dog with a summer cut. Her cheeks were flushed with activity as we squatted and sifted sand, looking for twinkles of red rocks.

I still have them somewhere in the attic of my parent's house-- those rubies are tucked in between cotton and stuffed in a white box.

My GG is now 85 with white thinning hair. She sits in a hard rocker in the corner of the room and rocks silently-- unnoticed, just an observer. This woman-- who lead us down Scout Road and up the "big hill" when I was little and wanted pine cones -- is now a quiet observer to life.
When did it happen? When did she suddenly get old?

I remember I moved out here 10 years ago. I was just two hours up the road by car. I thought we'd do all sorts of things together, but my life got in the way-- children, gas prices, work. Who could spare a moment for one when four sets of eyes are asking me for one at home? We used to talk on the phone once or twice a week. When did that stop? Was it when her ears gave out? I'm not sure, but I did. It was always too hard to pack up the kids and take them to GGs. I went more than anyone else, but not enough. I know that now.

This Thanksgiving I met up with GG at my uncle's cabin. She looked grey in the face. Her legs were hard, purple and swollen. When she breathed, her chested wheezed. There was a walker in the corner-- what? Why? This women never needed help from anyone, and now a walker? I made small talk, but it was useless to carry one a real conversation. She seemed to talk in circles, never reaching the end-- just circling back to the beginning. So we talked about the past-- panning for rubies in Yellowstone, camping up at Cisco Grove, driving from Texas to California in an RV (and breaking down over and over and over).

She told me she doesn't fear death. I feel as though I am in a race, running in the doey legs of an 11-year-old, trying to find the lady I left back at the ruby mines. She is sitting right in front of me. I know, but? Why can't we sift through the sand, slow down time, slow it down for a moment? I've let so much slip through my fingers and I've lost her. I know she is there somewhere-- her flushed cheeks and silver hair. I know she is there. Now if I could just find her.