Food

We fed the sister missionaries tonight. They are in a trio, and all three of them are sweet. They all said they liked my food and therefore received serious brownie points. I don't even care that I don't get to enjoy leftovers.

They spend most of their time meeting with investigators in a city area even though their own area is more suburb than where we live. This is because the elders are in the city and find a lot of single mothers to teach. They would have to have a member with them all day long, every day. So instead, the sisters come to town. Makes sense to me.

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I didn't click on any of those Facebook pictures about the dress. I didn't care. But the whole "break the internet" experience made me think of a friend from high school. She was the queen of colors.

If you asked her the color of the walls in our history classroom she responded with, "old egg-shell chalk." If you asked her the color of her hair it was, "autumn sunset on the beach." I would've called it auburn, because apparently my imagination tends to conform. I was nervous to ask about my own hair, worried that it would come out "something-something poop" or some other such fecal reminder. When you're in high school, you don't want your hair to remind someone of poop.

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Grandma Peggy's hair was, I'm told, a brilliant red/auburn/fire. When my grandma was a young married lady she sang in the ward choir. This was probably exciting to the choir, seeing as she started singing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir when she was 18 years old. There was a man singing behind her, and at one point he leaned forward and said to her, "Peggy, you have the kind of hair that a man wants to run barefoot through." Apparently Grandpa just laughed. He usually took these sorts of things in stride—getting more of a rise from Grandma that way.

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My dear friend announced today that her grandma died.

I don't want my grandma to die. Not when I'm 2,500 miles away. I haven't finished listening to her stories yet. I haven't finished sitting at her feet and letting her play with my hair or write me secret messages with her finger lightly tracing one letter at a time on my back. I haven't finished learning from her. I haven't finished.

What if I forget things—specific things—and no one else can tell me how to fill in the blank spot in my memory? Or what if she dies while I'm away, and then I don't get to fill the blank spot in my heart?

I do know that families can be together forever. That comfort also doesn't change the mortality bit where things hurt and you miss people.

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I think I'm homesick. Anyone want to FaceTime or Google Hangout?