The young and the old

Since my return from Afghanistan, I have had a lot of contact with two groups of people I was not really interacting with much over the past few years: the young and the old.

The old:
Here in Italy I am currently still living in my parent's house, where my 96 year old grandma lives as well. She has been there all along, since I was born, taking me to kindergarten, buying me sweets on good day, taking me with her when collecting the milk from the farmer next by, letting me watch when preparing tyrolian dumplings. As I got older, she continued living in the house of my parents, but since I moved out from there at a rather young age, in search of my own life and identity, I noticed her less and less. Sure, there was a couple of days which I spent at home every few months, but those days were filled with tons of other stuff, leaving little time to take notice of my aging grandma. Somehow, she always seemed the same. Getting up in the morning at eight, putting on a blue skirt and a red pullover, combing her hair back (whereas few strains always stick out, giving her a loose similarity with Homer Simpson), taking a honeybread and milkcoffee for breakfast, then going for a walk, reading the paper, eating lunch, going for a walk again and reading the paper again, and eventually going to bed, staying awake till somebody would put eyedrops into her grey eyes.
It's only now, after over ten years abroad, that I am suddenly spending sufficient time at home to notice the changes that have happened over the years. And one of the most visible changes is that my grandma suddenly got old. There are the same few questions which she is asking me every day, forgetting the answers that I gave the day before and all the other days since my return in November. There is the speed of her walking. Today we went for a walk together, and believe me, a blindfolded snail could run faster. There are the empty stares, out of the window, that turn longer with every day passing by. When she is talking about her age, there is less resonance of fear from an approaching death, and more acceptance of leaving soon. There are hundreds of things that seem to enter her memory and leave it at the same moment again. There are also few moments, when she suddenly seems to have a clear mind again. Like today, when she asked me if people in Afghanistan would eat the same food as people in Italy; or the other day when she commented on how great it is that nowadays, young unmarried women can have children on their own without being excluded from society. But those moments are few. More are the stares. While walking with her today through the village, I wondered whether this aging was a sudden process, or whether it had happened gradually over all those years which I had been away. It's kind of weird, but I am doubting whether travelling around and living in other countries has given me more identity then a life at home would have. When I am looking at her, and at my mother, who is her daughter, I can find my own features in them again. How much of me is what I grabbed during life abroad, and how much is given by those generations with whom I am sharing house now?