"What changed?" I asked her.
“Honey, believe it or not, I have no idea,” she said with a shake of her head and shrug of her shoulders.
On this particularly sunny spring afternoon, my great-grandmother and I were walking in the garden of the assisted living residence where she lived. I was on break from college and caught her in a rueful mood - or she was trying to teach me a lesson. I wasn't sure which.
This started with a simple statement: “I used to be pretty. Then one morning I woke up, and I was ugly.” She believed her sister-in-law, a conservative Christian, foretold it, and the same for her brother Aaron, who was a drinker and gambler. Aaron, she had just noted, stopped his ugly behavior, and I wondered why.
“He never said,” she answered, “and well, we never asked. Neither Florence nor I. It happened so gradually, I think, that we almost didn’t notice. One evening my husband and I were visiting, and I was feeling pretty thirsty. Florence wouldn’t allow any alcohol in the house, so I suggested we go the Flat Iron bar for a beer, and Aaron said he’d rather just have cake and coffee and stay home. And that was that."
She faltered for a moment, and seemed to be drawing back to herself and her own life. In that moment, she seemed not only frail, but also regretful.
"He never turned ugly," she concluded.
A blink later she grabbed my arm and proceeded with renewed vigor, returning to the energy I remember her having before she moved to the senior residence.
"Now my daughter your grandmother was beautiful,” she declared, “both on the outside and inside. She could draw all the eyes in a room to her, and more than that. She had humility. She never used her beauty or her charm for a selfish reason. And she was stately. "
Of course, like any grandchild, I believed my grandmother came directly from heaven, fashioned out of the most blessed stuff that God had available. While my own memories of her warmed my soul, my great-grandmother continued.
"Your mom—she’s beautiful, too. You know that, right?"
"Of course, Grandma," I said. "Every child thinks his mother is the most beautiful woman in the world."
"That's not what I mean," she snapped, "and you know it. You know things. Your mom is special. And do you know why?”
Without waiting for me to reply, she continued. "Because for both your mother and grandmother, their beauty goes all the way through. It’s not held in their faces or their bodies, but in their souls. And even if other people don't fully realize it, they sense it."
By this time, we returned to her room, and I helped her sit in her chair before handing her a glass of water.
"Thank you," she acknowledged. "You're a good boy."
I rolled my eyes.
"Don't mock me!" she ordered, and I stepped back. Then she relaxed.
She looked tired, so I indicated that this might be a good time for me to depart. She nodded, and turned her head toward her own thoughts and memories. These moods sometimes concerned me. Each time they happened I felt as though she was moving closer to another realm, leaving this place where we were together a little more each time.
"Would you like me to turn the television on?" I asked.
"No, thank you."
I waited a moment for her to acknowledge me, but she never stirred. Was her mind full or simply empty, I wondered. Either way it seemed like melancholy, and I felt badly for instigating it.
"I guess I'll be leaving then," I said.
I moved slowly. First, I gave her a moment to respond; she didn't. Then I walked over to her and gave her the customary kiss on the cheek; more out of habit than willful participation, she turned her head to offer the cheek to me. I waited there a moment and then patted her hand.
"See you the next time," I said.
I took a deep breath and headed for the door; I was nearly gone when she spoke.
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