I am still SO angry.  I hadn't realized.  It's easy to push something back when it's not in your face but it's been brewing there at the back of my living all this time and when I looked her in the eyes today I knew the truth...I am still bruised. 

She's so sweet and her eighty-nine years frolic along her aura and she gushes over the kids and she "Oh, time just flies by so fast, doesn't it?"  And when I hug her I want to cry because I hate her nearly as much as I love her and I can't make sense of myself being all kind and all "Oh, it really does!"  And I hate myself as much as she loves me.

She shows me the round pillow she crocheted and gifted to my mother like a child displaying school artwork.  "Must've taken me two weeks," she tells me.

I pull at a loose thread.  I imagine pulling it - yanking out from it's tight tucked stitching - pulling and pulling and knotting it up and curling it round into a right mess and dropping it at her feet and saying, "I made this for you.  This is my art.  I call it Grandpa."