For some reason this morning I began to reminisce about my paternal grandmother’s face. With a grimace on my face, I remembered her lopsided mouth.
I remember not wanting to look at her.
I loved my grandmother Carrie. She put mustard in Betsy Wetsy’s diapers so Betsy’s bodily functions would more realistic. Grandma had a never-empty chocolate-chip cookie jar. The youngest in her family, she was fun-loving and had an infectious giggle.
But when her face no longer had symmetry, I didn’t like to look at her or even, if the truth be told, interact with her.
Marina Mander (November 17 Opinion piece in the Sunday New York Times) woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and reported seeing a sinister smile.
In the emergency room, when the doctor asked how she felt, she replied it felt as if she had swallowed a Francis Bacon painting. The doctor gave her a blank stare.
Which you may be giving your computer screen right now.
Tune in next week for more information. I hate to close out on you like this but I’m feeling exhausted. This has turned out to be an emotional post to create. I need more time to think. I invite your thoughts on whether symmetry kills.
Thanks for exploring the mystery – Nicky Mendenhall