why is it so hard to call a number

I don't love my grandmother. Honest truth despite my wanting to - and why do I want to? Because Sister, Mom, they love her, they'd think me unfeeling and monstrous for not. I think of Omi sitting alone waiting for phone calls, slowly surely losing memory and sense of being, a crumb in the corner of a blank massive plate. She is old. That's a dumb thing to think of, and certainly not a reason to not love her - I don't believe it IS even a reason I don't love her. But what is, then? I set reminders on my phone to call her, swipe them away. Change the date to be reminded again to call tomorrow, and indefinitely put it off, push the jar of unwanted salsa further into the back of the fridge until it is masked by newer fresher products. I think Sister would be horrified I don't love Omi. And when I say I don't, it's not that I feel nothing, or that there's no fondness or good memory. It's that there's no true desire to call because a call would be for HER sake - there is no selfless giving, as real love does at times demand. This is how I know. Because I do not care enough to give. I think of a half hour conversation with Omi, Omi who is confused and forgets who I am and herself and that Opi is dead, and that half hour seems an endlessly long corridor of time. I am selfish. I am a bitch in this. I am ugly in this. I am open and raw and I do not love my grandmother, and I feel guilt eating the walls of my stomach, but it is more guilt at what Sister and Mom would think if they knew the full extent of my lack of love than it is guilt over thinking I am wrong for this. I do not think it is bad that I don't love Omi; I think it is sad and circumstantial and a bastard outlook borne of distance and alienation. Ugly heart mine.