B U M P I T Z

So, I've had a writer's callus as long as I can remember. Since about third grade there has been a very noticeable hill on my middle finger. I used to be very self conscious of it, thinking it looked gross (which I've accepted.)
It wasn't until recently, in dealing with my great-grandmother (Mony's) dementia, that I decided having this hill was to my advantage. Mony's memory and understanding is steadily decreasing and her grasp of time is slipping away faster than butter across a frying pan. But, as scary as that is for me and the rest of my family right now, it's helped me be thankful for all I have now. My youth, my writing, my family, my writer's callus--it's helped me to realize what we live for. The reasons we do things and how much they will eventually matter. Mony relives every moment of her life. She is only who she used to be. And I think she's okay with that, I think it makes her happy. Because she was a good person, because she took chances and did what it took to be happy. Because in her own way, Mony had a writer's callus, a hill on her finger that was her cooking and her children and her Bingo nights and her husband--and even though it's sad that she doesn't realize that's not the time it is now, or that she's slipping away, even though it's hard to look at, it's who she is.
I know that I could have dementia, I could lose my mind, my marbles, like a kids thumb plucking them outside a big circle--nothing is permanent. But as long as I have this callus. As long as all the memories and moments I care about are built up inside this hill, I'll be happy with myself. I'm finally as a point in my life where I'm happy with all of my decisions. All of who I am.
And I know there are Mony stories inside that callus. And one day she may not know me. Or herself. But I can run her finger across mine, like braille, and maybe she'll remember. Maybe she'll know me then. Because sometimes I think there's more of her in that callus than me, but I wouldn't have it any other way.