We Never Met

I never met my dad's mom.  No one really talks about her.  She has become this legend in my mind.  I create ideas of how I think she was and what she would be like if I knew her now.
The only picture I have seen is her standing by my young father.  She is beautiful, thin, in a formfitting dress, a thin line smile across her face. I look nothing like her, I have never been told I look like her.  No one really looks like her.  She is of her own person.
I have this feeling my grandma wasn't the motherly type.  When my dad does speak of her it is with some affection, but not that affection that speaks of bedtime stories and fresh bake chocolate chip cookies.  The affection is somewhat mysterious.  My grandmother was almost an enigma.
I think of my own troubling mother past and the possibility of what my grandmother was and I wonder if I try to hard.  Or I don't try hard enough.
And I am what my grandmother was.  Did she feel the same way as I do now?  What if being a mother doesn't come naturally?  What if it is learned?  A series of tests.  Trials and tribulations.  What if you weren't born to be a mother but you find yourself on this journey?  What if you didn't know the mothers and grandmothers before you? 
Your mothering litmus test.
 I see my grandmother as a story, a tragedy more then a fairy tale.  Some days I wish I had known her.  
And some days, like today, I am satisfied with the story.

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