I’m talking about hugs

Living alone is something I love. It’s hard sometimes, but I never disliked the bitter aftertaste of blackberries. I used to pick them with my grandmother as a toddler. She was a very strict lady, but very good at giving hugs. I find that grandmothers are either soft as pudim or tough as nails, and whatever they are the grandfather gets to be opposite, so they can play good cop, bad cop with everyone.

They weren’t our grandparents from my mom’s side nor from my father’s side, but we called them grandad and gran-gran, and so that they were.

Im a bit of roller coaster to be fair, so crisis and jolly times are not too far apart on a daily basis — I assume there is a clinical name for that — but I don’t like roller coasters, so I refuse to cooperate most times when the fruit flies sit in my brain and I get to feel awful for the next however many days. At those times, it makes sense to go looking for someone to help relieve the bitter aftertaste. I personally prefer buying a stupid amount of ice cream.

I thought that came from being alone, though friends can also be bitter. They can kiss much in the same way they bite. So, loneliness is not reserved to the lonely. We know how easy it is to feel alone at a party or crowded square; How good and bad absentminded company is and isn’t.

The one thing I remember from my grandfather’s burial is the outside of a catholic church where I played with other kids that were too little to be inside. After that, our grandmother lived for another eight years to ninety-nine. We learned of her death from afar having moved to another city. I would be old enough to be inside the church then, but we weren’t catholic anymore. So, she lived without him or us for those few years.

Although living alone has its bitter aftertaste, it first tastes of wine, a good movie, of silence in the morning, of healthy introspection, and freshness.

I find the same amongst friends when at a dinner parties, Friday nights where everyone can complain about work and have wine, beer and pasta or Japanese grill freely with our headaches towing together — burger nights are the best nights. Then Monday feels a little bitter again; Then I have some ice cream.

It must be so much harder at ninety-nine, the bitter of today might even feel sweet when you are waiting to be done. The wisest and toughest grandmothers cry on their alone times, and at those times they need the same hug they give us when we scrape our knee.

It does feel like an ever repeating cycle, but that is deceptive. A lot is deceptive in our 20s, early or late — lets add 30s and 40s to the mix as well. When I look back at the sweet or bitter, I find things have always been a little different even if unintentionally.

Gran-gran found a lovable gent to help with the bitter Mondays — he was the sweetest — and being protagonists makes us forget others have lives with bitter aftertastes as well, so a kiss is okay, though don’t turn other people bitter, just have some ice cream first and that should be alright.

I thought I was talking about hugs here. Then, hug first. Not just everyone else, but yourself. That probably helps more than ice cream — sinful statement I know, but I hug makes ice cream taste better; it makes a kiss taste better. And I’m sure gran-gran only lived eight more years because of that, not only stubbornness— though she was pretty stubborn.