1938

My grandma just turned 85. Isn’t that crazy? Eighty-five. We have 60 years differentiating us. Eighty-fucking-five. How is that even possible? I know it’s not out of the ordinary, in fact my other grandmother is actually older than that. But I mean my grandma. The real one. Nanny. The closest one to my heart. She’s now 85 and a day old. That’s heavy. It has to mean something. That’s almost 90. Ninety is almost a century. That’s 100! She’s 15 years from turning 100. A-Hun-dre-d! She was born right in between two world wars, lived through dicatorships and revolutions, had three children, lost one, lost parents, and a husband, and a sister. Gained 3 grandsons, 2 great grand-sons, rode scooters in Brazil, took pictures in London and taught my mother how to order nepkins in fucking Amesterdam. And she still squats every morning. She still takes classes. She still travels with friends. She seems to be getting younger, lighter, brighter. But to me she will always be nanny. “A vózinha”, as I call her. This sweet old short smiley high-pitched voice lady. Because I never met the baby. I never met the young girl who had to quit school. The person who grew up to become a citizen. And a girlfriend, and then a wife. The mother. The caretaker. I’ve only met the eldery version of who she is. Who was always a widow, writes reminders by hand and makes sure the house is always clean. The person who moved to a different city and had to reinvent herself just because I was born. It’s as if her whole other self never existed. It wasn’t part of my reality. It isnt’t recognizable in pictures. And that’s how most people will remember her – the old lady. Like if decades past were part of another life no one knows about. A hidden secret even memory doesn’t seem to care to cherish. She’s my grandma. The one who taught me how to paint. The one who taught me vegetables are good for you. The one who gave me a spear room during college years and allowed me to crash whenever things at home weren't good. The one who gave me my first car under the condition I'd always take her to buy groceries. She's the first woman to whom I promised would live with me once I have a house. Nuvinia. The name no one knows how to spell. Nuvy. An old beautiful person.