Roots

Meeting my step-mom's grandmother for the first time.

It was the first time I met Gram. She was lounging on a fold-out beach chair, sinking into the sun of Muskoka. Her white-rimmed hat blended into the stringy texture of her short styled hair. She slept underneath her retro shades, her purple one-piece, and a shiny layer of SPF 70 over her skin.

Some of the family and I were pushing licorice pieces into one another: a makeshift cake for Gram’s eightieth birthday. Since the day landed amongst the madness of our family reunion, cake-making ingredients were nowhere to be found in the empty kitchen cabinets of our rental cottage. But our lacking supplies were no crucial matter. Gram loved licorice and hated birthdays. We didn’t think a low quality celebration would be that big of a deal to her since time and time again that day, Gram grumbled that she was tired of living. 

As we presented the cake to her, I remember wishing the licorice would sweeten her view.