Granma refused to acknowledge when spring came. The days got hotter and longer but she still sat out on her porch every evening with a cup of steaming hot tea in her hand, waiting for the stars to come out.
We grandchildren couldn’t bear to come visit her during this time of year because she refused to turn the air conditioner on. It didn’t seem that she couldn’t feel the warmth; it was almost as if she simply didn’t want to admit that it was here.
With the birds singing in the trees, new flowers budding every day and the promise of school ending soon, my friends and I couldn’t think of a better time of year but Granma clang onto her memories of winter like a tick on skin.
I often wondered why she liked winter so much. Was it simply fond memories or something much more? I never asked.
As the years went by, Granma seemed more and more determined to deny the existence of warmth. She wrapped herself tightly in a heavy shawl every morning and served hot soup and tea even in the record high temperatures of summer and when I visited her, she asked me how I liked the snow.
She was trapped in a perpetual state of winter, unable to acknowledge the circular pattern of the seasons. When I tried to remind her, carefully, of how warm it is was outside she gave me a look that told me she thought I was as crazy as I thought she was.
Her mind was an impenetrable fortress against reality, filled with emotions and feelings so cold that they must constantly warmed by an impossible amount of heat.
The month before she died, I visited once more to see that she had begun lighting the fireplace.
[...] Heat – one of the oddest stories…I don’t think anyone’s understood the meaning [...]