Growing up,

my grandmother’s house was a second home to me.

Greeted by the smell of lavender and sweet peas,

she provided a safe haven

from my not so conventional nuclear family,

swept me away from the cloudy haze of smoke

and cacophony of screams.

 

My grandmother has never been one to hold onto anything.

She re-gifts and donates constantly,

clutter her biggest pet peeve.

Letting go

seems to me to be one of her most cherished pastimes.

Little did I know,

all of these years she was holding onto pieces of me.

 

We have drifted apart over the years,

but recently we took a stroll down memory lane.

She pulled a photo album from the top drawer of her dresser.

Hidden safely away but never out of reach

were pictures of little me, a baby.

Nestled inside,

a matching set of the same snapshots she had once given me.

 

My grandmother was a career cosmetologist.

She spent her entire life cultivating beauty.

Preciously preserved in a plastic baggy,

I found a single lock of honeydew curls,

from my very first haircut, she tells me.

This impacted me profoundly,

illustrating her unwavering love for me.

 

We are two halves of the same coin,

searching to find balance between holding on desperately and letting go freely.