My Nanny Moss was an impeccably dressed woman. She always had pin-curled hair and wore long skirts with tucked in blouses.
Her interests were varied. She played cards occasionally but wasn’t a terribly social sort. She loved to play her guitar and scratch her tickets.
Although Bingo was her favorite, she’d have a pull-tab here or there and would do a Crossword, but only all could come from Kings Convenience.
She felt the rest of the local stores were shady.
She had a beautiful wedding ring, designed by my grandfather that created a diamond encrusted rose. And a small gold band on her opposite hand, that nobody was ever brazen enough to ask about. She also had a beautiful assortment of tea cups, and I had a special one. It had a vibrant red rose, with small lime green shoots. It was my tea cup whenever I had tea at her house.
I decided when I was 12 years old that I didn’t understand church. My mother asked me why and I told her that I wasn’t feeling joy. I had an ultimatum from my mother to either go to church
or spend an hour doing something that made me feel enlightened.
I talked to Nanny Moss on the phone.
Not every day, maybe not every week, but it was my enlightenment.
When Nanny Moss was laid to rest, i was very upset. She was my friend. We relied on each other. For my religion, for her relief.
I saw her at her grave and they took off her rings. When I protested, breaking my heart and crying to put them back on her fingers, my mother told me that they were taken from her hand because people may steal them.
And I was destroyed. But I also strangely understood.