Do you know what my mom told me recently, through total tears? She told me that everyone always believed that her father was a drunken lout who squandered their money and ruined their family. That's what she grew up believing, even though as an adult she brought us to see him and had a friendly relationship with him and I never saw him as anything but a kind, red-faced man with a gracious wife and the nicest golden retriever you ever could meet. She told me that when he was close to death, (I was in middle school), he sat her down in his lovely living room in Jackson and in his weakened state tried to explain to her that it hadn't been completely his fault. (Insert my mother crying. Which is a sight I don't often see unless we are watching a sad movie or talking about an inspiring book or something.) He tried to tell her that my grandmother had been really difficult, all the while praising her for bringing up the five kids so well -- it was like he didn't want to badmouth her, but he didn't want to die taking all the blame, either.

Can I even tell you how much that broke my heart?

My grandmother has lived for twenty-five years nextdoor to her oldest daughter. Basically, they hate each other, for reasons I'll probably never wholly understand. They've done and said unspeakably cruel things to each other. My mom's kid sister moved to California to escape the memories of their poor, miserable childhood. My grandmother didn't recognize her at Thanksgiving, and it's not because she has Alzheimer's. It's because she hadn't seen her in years.

My immediate family got to see a nicer side of her -- although I distinctly recall times when she would say things that were so hateful to me when I was really little that I would cry -- but more often than not, I have happy memories of her visits.

I remember the way she would play with us on the beach in Florida and the way she would whistle while she did puzzles or played solitaire. I remember sending her stories I wrote and I remember listening to her recite Chaucer and meeting countless people who were taught by her and loved her. I remember the smell of her soap and her lipstick. I remember having her tie the ribbons on the backs of my dresses more perfectly than anyone else could. I remember hiding her cigarettes in my Barbie Townhouse. I remember her playing our piano and teaching me how to make peanut butter fudge. I remember when I decided to quit teaching at Eastertime and she sat me down in our guest room and told me, "Don't worry. The Lord will provide. The Lord will provide," and how much comfort that gave me, even though I wasn't even sure I believed in the Lord anymore. I remember when she asked me as she walked out of our house on Sunday on what could very well be her last visit -- "Eliza, when are you going to write your book?"

This is the grandmother I choose to remember. This is the grandmother I will tell my kids about if I ever have any. She is ninety-three and a half years old.

My mother moved her this weekend to an apartment where she can be closer to her second daughter, a nun. My mom has been helping her pack and unpack for the last four days. When I talked to my Mom on the phone last night, she said that my grandmother was finally settled, that she was sitting on her couch drinking a glass of wine and writing her her journal. Then she said, "And guess who she is giving her journals to? They're in my trunk right now," she said. "To her favorite grandchild," she said. I hung up and started crying. To me. Me.

I don't know why I am having so many thoughts about her these days. Maybe it's because I don't understand how a woman can be so loved and so hated by so many people. But I know that I choose to love her, because the emotional crimes she has committed were truly never against me. Maybe when I was very small and she called my hair a rat's nest or something, but that's the extent of it. She's been nothing but sweet to me for most of my life. I think she sees me as a kindred spirit, the one grandchild she can talk to about authors and poets and the books she loves so dearly. Her favorite Shakespeare play is King Lear, about a tyrannical parent and daughters and the love and hate that drives them all.

This is what I wish could take place between her and all of her children before she dies: