“Nobody ever writes me,” Aunt Ginny scolds immediately after the hugs. It’s a common, expected greeting, sometimes followed by more admonishing and borderline lecturing. Maybe to those who never raised a child to adulthood, to those who never had the opportunity, the experience to learn about wholeheartedly loving-in-spite-of, that’s what being a matriarch looks like: wagging a finger, pointing out faults, lecturing the children about on what they are doing wrong.
A stitched rendition of Nancy’s drawing and Aunt Ginny’s handkerchief, both resting on an afghan crocheted by Virginia’s mother/Nancy’s grandmother. Three generations of women. In fiber.
She is my developmentally disabled sister-in-law, Nancy,
and I am Jeanne, the woman who flat-out loves her.
Go here to start at the beginning and read your way current.
And there’s a pinterest board, too.