The Stranger in my Kitchen

Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know.
-Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven



She looks grandmother-ly enough. Silver streaked hair cropped close to her head. Wrinkles outlining her mouth and eyes. There must be something I'm missing. Perhaps it is the spark, or lack of which, in her eyes that I imagined should be there. This woman is my grandmother. This woman is a stranger.

When I was born, my family moved to Connecticut. Not all of my family, just my parents and I. Siblings followed. Grandparents did not. I see them once every few years, if I'm lucky, that is. Or perhaps, I'm lucky not to see them. I don't know, I barely know them.

I clip my hair up to the side, and take deep breaths in front of the mirror. She assumes every teenager is just like the rest, and therefore, her and my sister to get along. My sister has always been the cute chubby baby, the angelic blond child, and now, the stereotypical teen. I'm different. She will judge me. Just like everyone else.

When I'm finally satisfied, I go downstairs to say hello. She wraps me in an awkward hug, and studies my face for a minute. "You cut your hair," she observes, "Since when has it been curly?" My fingers jump to my head, self consciously trying to tame the mess. "I cut it two years ago, it curled on its own," I stammer. She nods, but her eyes still shine with disapproval.

I don't know what having a grandmother should be like. I guess I've created my own idea of it. I figure a grandparents house would be a home away from home, a place of smiles, a place to be spoiled. A safe, comforting, homey feeling. I'll never know for sure. I'm wearing an over sized knit sweater, I taught myself to knit. I've never tasted her cooking, nor listened to stories of her childhood. Perhaps it is the lack of grandparents that continuously drives me to make other people proud.

She talks to me like I'm still a child, naive. I don't blame her. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my age, my birthday, my favorites, my friends, or even understand my acting. She has never heard me sing, never seen me perform.

After a few minutes of inane chat, I join my neighbor on the couch. It strikes me that my neighbor is closer to being family then my grandmother will ever be. Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know, but really, our family is just strangers that we have come to know. The people you surround yourself with are your family. Surround yourself with love, love your family, and love the strangers in your life.