There was this one poem that she would recite to me all of the time:
As a rule, man is a fool,
When it's hot, he wants it cool;
When it's cool, he wants it hot,
man always wants it, when it’s not.
One of my fondest recurring memories of my grandmother is her reciting that poem, over the stove, frying whatever that day. She’d always wonder what if she chose the path that wasn’t love and obligation (first to her parents, then to my grandfather). There’s no way to really tell, but she did still become a nurse, so that’s nice. Especially for that time.
I couldn’t bring myself to cook for years after she died.
happy Birthday, Grandma!