When I was little, my grandmother called me her kindred spirit.
“We’re February’s children,” she would whisper. “You’re Tuesday’s child,” she would emphasize. “Full of grace.”
It was a spell, I imagined. A spell to bind my spirit to her, to cause myself to wander through life, developing into another version of her.
She spoke in poetry – a song for everything. Poems about the day you were born, mingled with the Lord’s Prayer. Sealed with the enchanting song of the fairy ring.
Her home is decorated in blue and birds; birds everywhere. When she lived there, it was immaculate. Now, the wallpaper yellows and peels in my uncle’s old bedroom.
To some, the house looks to be meant for sale.
To me, the house looks to be full of secrets.
These secrets are tucked away, in jars, as keys to mystery boxes and locks. They’re tucked away, in books, as recipes she jotted down or sewing patterns she drew for making toys for children.
These secrets are tucked away, in drawers, as scraps of paper listing every single address she ever lived, as poems she wrote for my grandpa when he was away at war, and as photographs of all the people she ever loved.
She is my kindred spirit; a secret all to herself, living in a home for those that suffer with dementia.
She is my kindred spirt, so loved I can barely bring myself to cross the threshold of that place that keeps her secrets now.
She is my kindred spirit, compelling me to keep secrets of my own, so that one day, they may be discovered.
