My grandmother likes telling me her stories from the time she was a teacher. She now is retired, but she remembers every single one of her students.
My grandmother likes to look at the flowerbed in front of the ceramics factory my grandfather used to work at. She now lives alone in an apartment meant for two.
My grandmother likes it when I wear every vest, every sweater, every jumper, every jacket she tells me to wear, layer on layer on layer, cabbage leaves tied together with a simple piece of thread. She likes to tell me: “Здоровье важнее всего.” It is shortly followed by education.
My grandmother likes looking at the photos of her grandkids, at us. She stares at pictures in the evenings, memorizing every single detail, noticing every aspect. She likes describing her favourite photographs to me, although I often am the one to print them out
My grandmother loves her garden and her dacha house. My grandma likes to walk around her piece of land every time she about to leave somewhere, and whisper, “Господи, спаси и помоги. Все будет хорошо-хорошо-хорошо.”
My grandmother likes to make lists of things to do in the evenings, and tick tasks off as she gets through the day.
My grandmother likes to stay informed. When she makes us apple jam, she listens to the radio. In the evening, she turns on news on TV. My grandmother likes clarifying with my uncle all that she didn’t understand.
I like my grandmother’s stories and her love and care. I love her chicken soup. I love her unique quirks.
I like visiting my grandmother on March 8, when Russia has its annual lavish celebrations of International Women’s Day. I didn’t make it this year, though, when Mr. Putin appeared on television, as he did the year before. He looked into the camera, praised Russia’s women who “take care of our homes and children every day.” He recited poetry. My babushka alone in her house watched.
My babushka gets lonely sometimes, melancholy and sad.
Can she be friends with your grandmother?