Betty

Sitting across from her at a cafe spot, I was tired and maybe a bit cranky. I've learned over the years, however, to not let my mood get the best of me when I'm with her; I've acquired the ability to shut off any part of me that's impatient with the pace of conversation.

We held hands on the way there. They felt like delicate moist paper, the same as they did when she held my hand on the soccer field, waiting to go run off to Zoo Camp in Santa Barbara. She somehow still remembers that my team was the Anteaters. 

Amidst my selfish internal hankerings, I suddenly looked up into her eyes as she was speaking, and a switch went off in me. I realized that all I wanted to do was hear her talk, and I would just listen. I could take in the 92 years of collected stories, absorb the immense social changes she lived through, and just imagine the sea of memories she swims in! I could swim with her, riding the waves of a time I never knew, of a grandfather I never met. I was suddenly swelling with infatuation for this woman before me, who mothered my mother, who scolded me once or twice, but always told me I had the best hugs. 

Often I feel overwhelmed with the life I've already lived. If I concentrate hard and survey the canvass of my life carefully, there are so many interactions, so many connections I've made with people, places, and things. Glazing over all that can make 23 years seem like a waste. But to imagine that life four times over fills me with an overwhelming sense of admiration for her that I want to hug her for the rest of her life.