She got the picture, finally. A friend at the apartment helped her hang it up, right next to the T.V.
“Of course I know what it is,” she assures me when I ask. “It’s you and me jumpin’ into Connie’s Pool!” (Although I guarantee she’s lying and said something like “Will somebody tell me what that is?” and “Why in the world would I ever want to hang it on my wall?”)
I suppose she’s morally obligated. Just like when I was 10 and made that fake Monet-esque watercolor that Pop kept in his room till they moved back to Philly–the one that looked like an Easter-themed doppler reading dropped in the snow.
What she taught me?
Gift-Art is something to hang with pride. Not that you know what it is or even like it; it’s just that someone you love gave it to you. And in your many years, you’ve realized that such things are too important to toss in a drawer or even tack to the fridge. Whether your granddaughter is 10 . . . or 30.
I’ll try to realize and remember this, too.
In the meantime, she calls me and says, “I love it, I love it, I love it–honest to Church!” (Honest to church is something she says a lot. Something my friends have even picked up to use on their own.)
And when friends pop by her place for Kava and cat hair, I know she’ll show it off with pride. Not the drawing, per se. But the treasure in the memory; a moment framed and captured, and of course, the following:
- That it came all the way from Colorado.
- That it was drawn by a real-live Mexican (Obviously looking to get a rise out of said guest and whatever deep-routed generational stupidity they’d brought with them)
- That she (obviously) had great legs and a killer rack
- And, most of all, that it’s “Me and my Jenny”–and “we’re pals . . . Chess.”