Before she went blind at age 42, she read tea leaves for signs of joy and trouble.
Through the subsequent five decades I watched, fascinated, when Grandma took her glass eyes out to clean them, as casually as I now clean my glasses.
For many of those eye-blind years she lived alone in house the size of the one I live in. Every single thing in that house had precise place and function. She could hear you think, and smell through walls. Her scrying skills sharpened and she knew things before they happened. In this house, with these sharp senses she navigated meals, cleaning, laundry and dignified self-care with a sensibility that both astonished and empowered me.
Is this why I drink my first morning coffee in the darkness – to honour her five decades without light?
In part I think this is true. I do often think of her as the first light whispers through the windows to ghost the doorway and glint the curve of my mug.
Light seeps in hushed like tiptoed joy.
Good morning, Jeannie Brown. You are welcome here.