I didn't claim to be exciting when I committed to writing more often did I? Good.
Thinking of hitting the pillows early tonight. I'm in some sort of funk. Not overly depressed. Just off. Just sad. It may have something to do with running myself ragged with kid's activities and not having seen the sun for 116 days. Or it just may be the Christmas time blues.
Last night found me in the hallway crying almost uncontrollably thinking about my grandparents. My grandmother who is still very much alive, and my grandfather who is not. Gram had sent me a text asking me to put on the TV to PBS. When I did, there was a Great Performances broadcast of Phantom of the Opera. That was our thing - mine, Gram's and Pops'.
They introduced me to the musical when I was really young. They bought me the soundtrack and I learned every word to every song and played it at top volume for approximately two years straight. They took me to see a performance when it came to Cleveland. And when I was thirteen, I spent two weeks in North Carolina with them while they were fixing up a house they were selling. That soundtrack was the soundtrack to that entire trip. I'm sure my grandfather suffered in silence, but that memory brings me suck great joy.
So, in turn, last year, our local high school was doing a performance of the same show. This time I took Gram. We sat in the front row. For weeks after, we sent each other texts to the songs that were stuck in our head.
I'm lucky. I'm so, so, lucky to have my Gram. And to have the memories of them both.