No, this post isn’t about my mother or my girlfriend. It’s about my grandmother, who sadly, passed away last week.
Love is a tricky thing. Your family loves you (hopefully) and at some point you get to be really close to at least one other person who you marry (hopefully only once) and who loves you as well.
At least that’s what I think the rule is. A rule that never really applied to me as some of the closest people to me aren’t related by blood or marriage.
My father comes to my mind who isn’t my father from a biological perspective. Yet he’s the best man I know and the only I could have ever wished to be my dad.
And then there was his mother who became my grandma and I became her grandson, sans all the biological ties. When I walked into her life (likely screaming), she immediately became my grandma to me. That might seem somewhat awkward in retrospect as she at the time was the mother of the man my mother was dating – but those were all irrelevant details to me.
She became my grandmother, and she will always be my grandmother.
Many people grow up with too little love. I grew up with plenty, much of which came from people who “didn’t have” to love me. But they did anyways. Nobody more than my grandmother.
She taught me two things.
One, there is always room for one more helping.
Two, true love has nothing to do with blood lines or marriage contracts. It’s between two people who choose to love each other.
I loved, and always will love my grandma. Let’s just hope I find another woman who can make a Schnitzel like her.
Rest in peace Oma.
I miss you.