Granna can be a wicked old lady. She's been pushing me, or rather daring me to join Twitter as well. Must admit that me joining up in Facebook was also her idea. Granna is addicted to gossip, preferably thrown up in smelly digital gutters to satisfy the thirst of million other junkies like her. She follows Perez Hilton for crying out loud! Caro and her friends used to read his blog when they were younger, but it kind of lost its appeal when they realised it didn't make you look good if it was on your resume. Granna doesn't care about all that and laughs whenever I try to talk sense into her. She says it's all very funny and innocent and that Perez Hilton is a caricature reminding her of a guy she once dated when she was an actress, young and beautiful and in the prime of her life. "Yes, but Perez is gay," I then told her, expecting some other lame excuse to validate her peculiar taste for spending time online. Granna then replied that her friend was gay as well, but that she used to dress up like a man and he got a kick out of that. It's moments like these when I really wonder about the woman who has been watching out for us ever since we moved into the neighbourhood. Her living room is filled with photographs of her children and grandchildren, her late husband sits distinguished in a beautiful painting done by an artist friend. Nothing in her house makes me think of her as someone other than a loving and giving person who cooks fabulous meals and who shares sweet stories of her blessed childhood.
Caro called. She'll join us some time later. Granna prepared a special dinner today. We're celebrating. It's the 5th anniversary of us moving in next to her. She says she knew we'd all be friends and had a strong notion about me. Whenever Granna decides to focus her attention on me, it makes me feel weird. I have never told her about my thoughts and how I know deep inside I have lived before, even though I can't remember where and when, and who I was. But she seems to know something too she is not sharing. Yet. Every now and then she asks me a question, out of the blue. I am not sure whether she expects me to respond, or if I am to just sit there without being able to give an answer. Because I can't. Give answers.
Like if I knew why it wasn't Jesus they worshipped in San Cristobal, but his cousin John the Baptist instead. Or what wine they served at some party in the White House 80 years ago. Say what?
No. Never had anything with candlenuts in it before. The smell coming from the kitchen reminded me I was hungry. Granna made a dish she learned to cook when she lived in Hawaii. She says the candlenut carries its name because in the olden days, it was used to burn and set afire to give light. In Hawaii they named it 'Kukui'. Strange idea. To eat something that was also used as a torch of some kind? I closed my eyes and something weird happened. I saw flashes. Faces of people I didn't know, sounds and languages I couldn't understand. But I knew the smell of the candlenuts triggered this.
So finally a few pieces of the puzzle were handed to me. Albeit as illusive as ever. Not remembering facts, but remembering a memory of something. Knowing there are memories hidden inside, almost aching to come out.
Still, I'm happy with what I got.
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