Mona mentioned my grandmother Kathleen to me last night, and I unexpectedly burst into tears.
I’m weird about emotions. I admire people who can express them freely, but hold myself to another standard; when I express them, I immediately reproach myself: “Stop being such a baby! What’s the matter with you?”
I have to remind myself that there’s nothing the matter with me. Emotions are what make us human. Just don’t take them too seriously.
In the last letter I ever sent her, I had told her that my cat Alice died, just short of her 20th birthday. I had included a picture of myself in a big floppy hat, and at the time my beard reached halfway to my belt.
Below is the last letter Kathleen sent to me. She died just a few days later, at the age of 98.
I’d like you to meet her: