rough diamond

September 25, 2018

Sometimes, I look at my hands, and I can’t see how they’re related to the rest of me. I don’t like my hands, but I don’t mind them either. My paternal grandmother, Nana, had hands like mine. A cigarette –– Karelia Lights –– was always in one. Her nails were rarely painted, and her rings sat tight around the thickness of her fingers. She didn’t wear many –– a gold wedding band, and a band of white diamonds. I have the latter, but it’s a bit too big to wear. I keep meaning to have it re-sized. She had red velvet hair, big bunions and an Essex accent thicker than cement. She called my grandfather, “The Governor” and cooked excellent Yorkshire Puddings. She went to church every Sunday and brought us bags of crappy chocolate every time she’d visit. Her funeral –– a massive stroke in her late 60s –– was the first time I saw my Dad cry. The setting isn’t as refined as I’d like, but I’d never change it. It’s beautiful and crude, like she was.

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