I’ve written about my greatgrandmother, Nanny, before. She is my biggest hero, the one soulmate of everyone in my family, the one lynch pin in the universe.
She is 107 1/2. In some ways, she is eternal. Her age is impressive, but steady: she has always been simply “very old” to me. I know she is aging. There are at least seven times a day that I am reminded that time is limited. One of my deepest fears is that she will be gone before I have done anything to make her proud. I mean, after the outstanding life she has led, how does this fool get to claim her?
Today, my mother told me that Nanny has asked me to write her life story.
I cannot help but accept the offer, but holy buckets I am terrified, humbled, honored, and otherwise inadequate. I recently told a friend that I had occasionally thought about writing some kind of book, but that I wouldn’t know where to start. I am not at all the kind of person who is bursting with stories to tell.
Except for her stories. She is a wonderful storyteller, and I have memorized her greatest hits, and have told them myself. I know there are thousands more I haven’t heard. To hear those stories, the ones she hasn’t told anyone, leaves me speechless.
I’m going to do it. In a million lifetimes, I couldn’t say no.
But oh my God, I’m not sure if I’m worthy of it.