I Dream of Grandmotherhood
My desire to be the family matriarch is complicated by the fact that I’m not a mother
When I stare at myself in the mirror, I notice the few small lines etching around the corners of my eyes. I have my mother’s eyes: big and brown, always demanding attention.
We all complain about our DNA, the traits we are given without permission. I’m forever bitter about my zaftig physique and oversized ears; Why couldn’t I have gotten the skinny gene, or the one for blue eyes? These moments pass, however, when I look at photos and see the similarities to my family — the nose of my paternal grandmother who died when I was two, the ears I share with my Zada. These genetic inheritances remind me that other people in the world are part of me. When I feel alone, that connection makes me feel whole.
The riddle I tell people when they ask about my family is complicated: My grandmother died when she was only nine years old.
There is almost always a pregnant pause. “Nine? That’s impossible.” People assume I’m lying, or telling a bad joke, but it’s true. After a few more guesses I explain that she was born on leap year. A collective “Oh” ensues and the conversation moves on. As if 36 is a normal time to leave this Earth.
