By Angelica Luzzi / Contributor
The Memories of a Stranger
My grandma loves to tell me about her mom. Tales of memories. Irrational how I feel so close to someone I have never met. So similar the way she was perceived and the way I would describe myself. The memories of her have a different tint, a shade of grey covered in dust and resembling the difference in time; yet, I hear how her voice matches mine. Sometimes I have conversations with her in my mind.
When I was a baby, I loved to play the “Why?” game, driving my parents crazy. “Why do we sleep? Why do we smile?” Now I play a different game, the “But What’s the Point?” and I always lose against myself. The issue with this new game is that once it starts, it can get so dark it’s hard to find an exit. But now, my sister’s belly has grown so much I can feel a new life kick against my hand when I touch it. It’s not dark; it’s just too bright you can’t see.