MY PATAPHORICAL GRANDMOTHER
My pataphorical grandmother is calling to me across a chasm, an unbreachable chasm of words. Sometimes it seems like she can never reach me. Naturally, she loves me and I love her. But we never really seem to connect.
To make matters worse, though we are related, her daughter is not my mother. My mother exists in reality. My pataphorical grandmother does not have a daughter, because I have not bothered to imagine one. The daughter would be metaphorical -- or perhaps pataphorical, like grandmother. The point is moot: there will never be a daughter. And yet my pataphorical grandmother continues to exist, just the same.
The truth is, we have chosen each other. She has chosen me, I like to imagine, because she loves me. I have chosen her because I have chosen certain words.
My pataphorical grandmother gives me the gift of a lollipop and a toy bear. A rubber ball and a satin pillowcase.
And in turn I keep her around -- through the words I choose.