Missing You

Day 24: Something you miss

Wow.  There are a lot of things that come to me.  Perhaps I need to make a list rather than try to put one topic into paragraphs.

  1. My grandmother: her voice, her giggle, her food, her unconditional love, her advice.
  2. My dad: there’s so much I never said and I’ll never have the chance.  I have to live with that, and it hurts.
  3. My babies: mind you, they still live with me (for now — one’s off to college soon), but I really miss them as babies.  I know babies are labor intensive and exhausting, but my kids were beautiful and amazing and I wish I’d enjoyed that time with them more.
  4. New York: yes, I’ve been saying that for over seven years, ever since we left.  The New York I moved to in 1990 no longer exists.  Hell, the NYC I left in 2008 no longer exists.  I miss the raw energy of the City, with all its creativity and crazy.  I miss the feeling that making it there was the end all and be all in the life of an artist.  Now it’s just an expensive and sanitized Disneyland full of chain and big box stores.  The little businesses and restaurants are closing.  People in other parts of the country don’t seem to understand that NYC had its share of mom and pop stores too.  They’re gone now.  It’s so sad that it makes me cry.
  5. My hair: this always happens after I cut it short.  It’ll pass. I’ll grow it long again and then cut it all off again, all in 7-10 year cycles.
  6. My friends: my social life here in Ohio is very different from the ones I’ve had pretty much anywhere else.  I miss the closeness I enjoyed with my neighbors in New York, and with my colleagues.  People keep to themselves and their families more here.  It’s hard for a person like me who’s used to creating her family wherever she calls home.
  7. The over 40 family members and friends who have died since 2008: among them were my colleagues and mentors from my NYC music scene days, along with treasured members of John’s family and my own.  It got so bad at one point that folks were passing away in groups of three within a week for a while.  There’s been a lot of loss.
  8. Ethnic diversity: I miss riding the subway with Orthodox Jewish diamond merchants, Mexican mariachi bands, old ladies in saris, and Korean restaurant workers who smell like kimchee.  I miss that feeling of each subway car being a mini United Nations.  I miss living somewhere where catching a cab is a magic carpet ride that might take you to the middle east or sub-Saharan Africa.  I miss readily available sushi delivered to my door so many times that the restaurant sent me not one but two Christmas cards.  What I really miss is that Arabs are just another group of people in NYC, and not viewed and talked about with suspicion and trepidation.  In NYC, folks were folks and we all lived, worked, and co-existed without too much trouble most of the time.  I’m not that dark, but I’m often the darkest thing in the room around here.  It’s gone from being annoying to being just plain infuriating.
  9. The ocean: I’m an east coast kinda gal.  I need an ocean.  This Lake Erie beach shit is NOT cutting it.
  10. Cheese steaks, hoagies, bagels, (real) pizza, pastrami, egg creams, and Sabrett’s hot dogs: ‘nuf said.
  11. The feeling that my entire life is ahead of me: at nearly 48, that’s not really true anymore.  Sure, there’s a lot of life left for me to live, but I’m rapidly approaching the time where I will have lived more than half of my life.  I may live to be 96, but I doubt I’ll live to be 120, if you catch my drift.  I’m not 40.  I’m not 30.  I’m definitely not the wide eyed 24 year old I was when I last graduated from something (Juilliard in 1993).  More than ever, the phrase life is too short is becoming truly meaningful.
  12. My uterus: another odd thing to say, but still true.  We parted ways nearly two months ago.  I don’t miss how it was in the final days, but I miss feeling like I’m whole.  I miss the possibility of having more babies.  My two are awesome, but I have always regretted not having more children.  Having my hysterectomy ushered me into a new stage of life that there is no way to prepare for — very much like becoming a parent or losing a parent.  There’s no way to explain how it feels.  It’s just the new normal.  Most days it’s okay, sometimes even great.  Then someone brings a baby into the room and I start to cry.  It’s hard to change how I see myself, but I’m trying.

I miss you all.

Day 4: 10 (Interesting) Things About Me

 

I’m going to cheat a bit on this one…

Nearly seven years ago, back when publishing notes on Facebook was a thing, I responded to the request from a friend to post 25 Random Things About Me.  I was surprised that I had 26 things to post, even though I probably could’ve condensed a few of them into a single item.  So, in the interest of conservation (reduce, reuse, recycle), I’m going to use some of that list here.

I put interesting in parentheses in the title because I’m not sure everyone will find these 10 things interesting.  Here’s hoping!

  1. I found out that I was adopted when I was nearly 30 years old and my firstborn was about 4 weeks old.  My “Aunt Cheryl” is really my mom.  Needless to say, this was some pretty earth-shaking news, especially in my hormonally challenged state.  Two years later, John helped me find my birth father.  So now I have four parents (though one is deceased), and my kids have six grandparents.  I’m also now no longer the only child I thought I was.  I have 5 brothers and sisters (again, one is deceased).  In the end, finding all this out was a tremendous blessing.
  2. I met my husband in 8th grade.  We sat across from each other in home room.  He thought I was cute.  I thought he was weird.  In 9th grade, I dated his best friend (who turned out to be gay — just my luck…).  We did eventually begin to date, right before he moved to Vermont.  I broke up with him on Valentine’s Day.  It took nearly two years and the kissing of MANY frogs to get me to see the mistake I’d made in dumping him.  We’ve been together since 1988 and married since 1992.
  3. Our daughter was born in the back seat of a 1997 Lincoln Town Car at the corner of 104th Street and Riverside Drive in NYC.  John delivered her.  This was the first of several diva moments she’s had in her nearly 18 years of life.  Giving birth to her was a life-changing experience for me.  I’ve never been the same since.
  4. Singing was my first musical expression.  I first remember “being caught” singing by my mother when I was 3.  We had just recently gone to a wedding, and the two musicians sang the song “September” from The Fantastiks.  That’s what I was singing to myself in my room as I played with my blocks.  Mom thought it was the radio.  When she figured out it was me, she carried me to her bedroom and made me sing it again for my dad.  I still remember the look on their faces; they looked at me as if I were some kind of freak.  That has, unfortunately, followed me since.
  5. I am a violist today, and have been since I was 16, but I started off playing violin.  Violin wasn’t even my first choice of instrument.  I wanted to play French Horn like my Aunt Mary Ann, but my parents didn’t want me to do ANYTHING  Mary Ann did.  So I talked them into letting me play violin.  They never really supported my love of music, often telling me that Black folks didn’t play stringed instruments or play Classical music.  Again, they made me feel like a freak for loving music and wanting to do it professionally.  They never have understood what I do.  This had been one of the saddest things in my life for many years.
  6. I wore braces on my teeth from the age of 22 to 25.  I still had on my bottom braces on my wedding day.  While it really sucked at the time, the investment in my smile was worth the pain.
  7. I love to practice and perform solo Bach more than any other music in the entire world.  It is the purest expression of who I am as a musician.
  8. Beethoven is my favorite composer.  When I was in Germany, I took the train from Cologne to Bonn to visit the Beethovenhaus Museum.  On the top floor, there is the room where he was born.  I remember standing in the doorway and crying like a baby at the thought of such greatness coming into the world in such a tiny space.  I also cry every time I hear or play the third movement of his Ninth Symphony.  I’ve been a musician for decades and I’ve heard and played a lot of music, but I’ve never heard anything more lovely and moving than that.
  9. I had an out of body experience the only time I ever performed the Shostakovich Viola Sonata.  I dedicated that particular performance to a friend of mine who had just died of AIDS.  While playing, I burst into tears during the climax of the last movement.  For many years, I remembered every note.  It was a really powerful experience.
  10. My son’s autism has been the biggest challenge for me.  Every view I ever had on raising children, education, and the way the world views the differently abled has been challenged, tested, and reevaluated.  There have been times when I literally thought I couldn’t raise him and that God had given him the wrong mother.  However, I have come to see that his triumphs outnumber his defeats and that he does benefit from my presence in his life.  Sometimes I think he’s raising me because he’s taught me so much.  He’s a beautiful boy and I love him so much.  It’s hard to watch the world misunderstand him, or to see his peers going on to do things he’s not ready to tackle.  All I can do is pray and do everything I can to make him as strong and capable as possible.  No one will limit this child as long as I’m alive.  Only the sky is his limit, no matter what anyone else may think.  I will never give up on him.  He is my sweet young man.

So, there are the 10 things I chose to share/disclose.  Interesting?  Perhaps.  Good for me?  As an exercise, this was absolutely perfect for me, especially on New Year’s Eve.  Tomorrow is a new day and a new year.  Maybe I’ll have a whole new list to share next December 31.

Daddy

Dear Daddy,

It’s been more than two years since you died.  I’m still pissed at you.

You left me before we could figure out how this relationship was supposed to work.  You left me before I could prove to you that I was a grown-up and not the little girl you insisted on seeing when you looked at me.  You left me to deal with Mom, knowing that you were the only thing that kept us from fighting constantly.

Daddy, there was so much I wanted to say to you.  I wanted to tell you that I forgave you for all of the silence and absence.  I wanted to talk with you about the drinking and the legacy of pain and resentment it left behind, and how I was able to let all that go as I walked my own path to sobriety and recovery.  I wanted to be honest and open after years of secrets and lies.

I wanted to tell you that I loved you in spite of it all.  I’ll never have that chance now.

You’re missing so much, Daddy.  You never got to meet our dog Michael, which we got just a few weeks before you left us.  Now we have a girl doggie named Lola.  The kids love the dogs so much and so do John and I.

You missed two summers of your grandson playing baseball.  He’s not very good, but he finally got a hit toward the end of his second season.  The team gave him the game ball.  He was so proud.

You would’ve been too.

Iain cried like a baby when I told him his Granddaddy was dead.  He was devastated.  He loves you so much still.  You are still a powerful presence in his life.

You’ll miss your granddaughter’s high school graduation next year.  She’s worked so hard.  You missed her school plays and her second trip to Europe.  You missed violin recitals and orchestra concerts.  You’ve missed the growth spurt that took her to nearly six feet tall.  She’s more beautiful today than she was as a little girl.  My baby, my firstborn, is almost a woman —  and you’re missing it.

Mom misses you too.  Her grief was huge and overpowering.  She almost wouldn’t let me see you to say goodbye.  She lashed out at me because she was angry with you for leaving her so close to your 50th wedding anniversary.  I had to hold her together and keep my grief locked away in my heart until I nearly exploded.  She was mean and selfish and cruel to me, but I promised you that I would take care of her — so I did.  I hated you for leaving me to deal with her.  I hated you for dying.

In my heart, I still don’t believe you had to die.  I think you were stubborn and proud and it killed you.  You should’ve gone to the hospital.  You shouldn’t have refused help.  You weren’t tired.  You didn’t need to rest.  You were bleeding internally and you needed help.  Why, Daddy?  Why did you have to be so stubborn?  Where is your pride now?  It’s gone and you along with it.  It availed you nothing.  It took you away from the people who loved you the most.

Your pride deprived me of my first true love and the most complicated relationship I’ve ever had with a man.  It’s been said that pride comes before a fall.  Yours was one helluva fall.

Your pride sucks.

I’m sorry to still be angry after so long.  I hurt more than anything else.  My heart hurts because I miss you.  Your death made me a member of a club that no one wants to belong to.  I hate that I feel this way.

Now that you’re gone and there’s nothing to be done about it, I’m glad that I am finally able to tell you all this.  Perhaps now you can hear my words in a way that you never could in life.  Maybe now we will finally understand each other.  I hope so.

I am comforted by my faith which tells me that we will meet again someday when it is my time to leave this life.  Then you and I and Grandma will all be together again, laughing and eating as we once did.  Then our love for each other will have no conditions or obstacles.  It will be as perfect as God’s love for all His children and as Jesus’ love for His father.  That is a great comfort to me and it eases the pain of your loss.

Daddy, I don’t want to be angry anymore.  I don’t want to resent you for leaving me behind.  I want to accept that you’re gone and only hold on to the good things that remain.  I would not be who I am today without you: the loud music listening and occasionally foul-mouthed North Philly girl who survived and got out.  I want you to be proud of me.  It’s all I ever wanted.

I want you to rest in peace.  I want to live in peace.

I love you, Daddy.  I miss you.  And I’m sorry for everything that was ever wrong between us.  I really am all grown up now.  Thank you for loving me as a little girl and helping me grow into the woman I am today.

You are always in my heart, Daddy.  Your memory truly is eternal for me and I will keep it alive for your grandchildren.

Goodbye, Daddy.  Until we meet again with the angels.

Lisa

Grandma

I have struggled with this particular post for a really long time. Telling my grandmother’s story is a daunting task. She lived a long and rich life marked by poverty, tragedy, and adversity, all of which made her remarkably strong and resilient. There was no way to tell the whole story in one shot without leaving out some pretty important stuff. No draft looked right to my eye or seemed to do her real justice. So I decided to talk about only one part of the story — the part with which I am uniquely familiar. I decided to talk about something that is at once really painful and really wonderful.

I’m going to write about the day Grandma died.

There is some back story to all this, so please bear with me a moment.

I am almost the age now that Grandma was when I was born. I grew up in her house until I was 13. I saw her nearly every day of my life until my parents and I moved to a new house in 1981. She taught me about unconditional love, but she also taught me how to be tough and strong. She doted on me and spoiled me. She told me I was as good as, smart as, and capable as any man. She told me nothing mattered more than my getting good grades in school and going to college. That was my biggest goal in life. I wanted to go to college more than anything else in the world, because it was what she wanted me to do. I would’ve done anything to please her.

My Grandma loved me with all her heart and it showed in everything she said and did. There was no one else in my life that I loved or counted on more. Grandma was my everything.

So, I finished high school and graduated high in my class. Grandma was at my graduation. I went to Oberlin and did well. Grandma was at my graduation. I went to Juilliard and did well there too. Grandma was at that graduation. It was the last one for me, but I was so happy that she could see them all. Her health had been so fragile that I wasn’t sure she’d make it, but she did. It was so amazing to see the joy and pride my accomplishments brought her.

Grandma was at my wedding and she adored John nearly as much as I did. Once again, her face was alight with happiness. Every picture of her from that day shows a gleeful little girl smile. I’ve never been sure if her happiness was for me or for herself. I was living the dream she had for me, and she was living to see me do it.

Soon after we found out we were having our first child, John and I drove down to Philadelphia to tell my family the good news. I had asked my folks to gather at Grandma’s house because I had news to share with them. Once we’d spilled the beans, everyone was buzzing around and chatting noisily and congratulating John. Grandma and I were sitting quietly with our foreheads together, crying and laughing and commiserating. John later told me that we were alone in our own little bubble, completely oblivious to everything going on around us. As it was so many times in my life, it was just her and me.

Grandma got to see Imani after she was born. Her heart expanded to love my little girl as much as she’d loved me. Once again, there was the look of incredible joy on her face and the joy in my heart. She had lived to see her great-grandchild. It was so wonderful to bring her these gifts of life and watch her smile.

When Imani was about two years old, my Grandma suffered a series of small strokes. She was never quite the same after that. It was the beginning of a long slow decline that slowly took her away from all of us. My little family was living in NYC and we rarely got to go down to Philly to see my family. Every time we did, I could see how she was changing. She didn’t recognize her own family members much of the time, but she did recognize me. By the time Iain was born, she was mostly gone, often speaking clearly about utter nonsense. It hurts me to think that she wasn’t able to know my son. I can only imagine how much she would have loved him too, and I hate that he was robbed of the opportunity to be loved by her.

When my Granddaddy died in 2004, my Grandma wasn’t really sure what was going on. She sat and smiled through the whole funeral. She looked confused. Later she asked where “Peaches” (my grandfather) was. She was rarely lucid and often mean. She was still alive in the body, but her mind was gone. My dad, her oldest child, was in complete denial which was equally painful to witness. Grandma was the glue that held our family together, and her deterioration was tearing us apart inside and out. The pain was sometimes excruciating for me, but I tried to remember that it was more important to honor who she had been to me rather than dwell on what was happening to her now.

About a year after my grandfather died, Grandma fell and broke her hip. She had been living alone with her niece who was also elderly and was suffering from cancer. Grandma had been taking out her demented rage on her niece and my family was turning a blind eye to her decline. Now they couldn’t deny how bad things had gotten. Grandma went into the hospital in 2005 and then went into nursing care. She never lived in her house again after that, though she did visit once or twice.

I visited her in the nursing home a few times, when I could. It was hard, but I needed to do it. I owed it to her for all the love she’d given me. One of the last times I saw her, after the memorial for an uncle of mine who had died, she couldn’t speak. She could only giggle. She looked at me and babbled incoherently, smiling the whole time. The staff served dinner while I was there, in the dining room with Law and Order on the TV. In true Gladys Berkley fashion, she tried to feed her dinner to me. Instead, I helped feed her. In that moment I realized that I was the adult now and she had become a child again. It was my turn to take care of her as she had doted on me for so many years. I fed her and I wiped her mouth. I tried not to let her see my tears as they tumbled down over my smile. I saw the handwriting on the wall.

I didn’t know how much time she had left, but I knew it wasn’t long.

By July 4th weekend, she’d been hospitalized with pneumonia and MRSA. She was released from the hospital just before John, the kids, and I arrived to visit her. She lay motionless and quiet in the bed with a breathing tube down her throat. She could say or do nothing. It was awful to see. I felt so helpless. I wanted to shout at her to get up and make us all something to eat, if only to feel normal again. But this was our new normal. She was making her way to a place I couldn’t go. No, not yet.

We went home and waited for news. We waited a few weeks. Around July 20, my dad called to say that my uncle was coming back to Philly from Afghanistan where he was setting up a women’s hospital. Uncle Vincent had medical power of attorney and was responsible for being sure her wishes were being respected. She was on a breathing tube for the pneumonia, but the pneumonia was now gone. The tube needed to come out. I had to be there. I knew what was coming. I needed to say goodbye.

I got in my car and I drove from Oberlin to Philly. I drove like a crazy person. I drove like a woman possessed, on a mission to get there before she was gone. I had to be there. Deep in my heart, I knew she’d wait for me.

I drove straight to the hospital and saw her laying there, again motionless. My Aunt Mary Ann was there already, putting lotion on my Grandma’s feet and legs and talking to her. She’d been there everyday for a week, coming after her long work day. Mary hugged me and we sat and talked a while. She knew too.

I went to visit my uncle before I headed off to my parents’ house. My cousin Andrew was there. It was so great to see them after so long. I only wish it had been under better circumstances. I hadn’t seen them since my Granddaddy died six years before. I wondered to myself why it was we could only get together when someone died. Sad how that happens.

Saturday, July 24 was spent going to funeral homes and making potential arrangements. No one knew for sure how long she’d survive without the breathing tube, but we wanted to be prepared in case she didn’t last long. My dad was nearly catatonic. My uncle was all business and charm. My aunt was pissed that we were planning her mom’s funeral before she was even dead. Andrew looked pained and awkward. He was only 19. I was 42. I’d had her all my life and lived with her for a lot of my early years. Andrew and his twin brother Matthew had grown up in Arizona and only seen Grandma once or twice a year until she went into nursing care when they were about 14. I could see the pain on his face. I knew that pain. While our dads and their sister bickered about their dying mother, I took Andrew out for coffee so we could grieve our grandmother.

We gathered at the hospital that evening. Her morphine drip would be increased over the course of a few hours before the breathing tube was removed. My mom and dad were there. Mom hadn’t seen Grandma in over a year. Mary Ann was there. Uncle Vincent and Andrew were there.

I was there.

It was a long night. Mary left first, unable to watch the tube come out. My parents left next because my dad, also in ill health, was really tired and stressed out. When the tube came out at around midnight on July 25, only Uncle Vincent, Andrew, and I were there to witness it. We stood there quietly as the machines were turned off and the tube was taken slowly from her throat. Then, an odd thing happened. Her lips began to move. It was almost amusing to think that Gladys’ salty tongue was cussing my uncle out for taking that tube out. There were no words, but her intention was clear. Trying to kill me? I’ll fix you!

Something inside my mind spoke to me clearly: this will take a long time, so sit down and rest. I sat in the recliner in the corner and closed my eyes. She was speaking to me: get some rest, baby girl. Close your eyes and sleep. Every couple of hours, I would wake up and look at her vital signs on the monitor. Having worked in a hospital in my teens, I knew what I was seeing. She was stable. Nothing had changed since the tube was removed. Her vitals were pretty strong and very stable. This was going to be a long night.

Once I woke up and saw that Andrew was asleep too. My uncle was sitting up, holding my Grandma’s hand and talking to her — telling her it was okay to go. Her vitals were steady as a rock. I closed my eyes.

I awoke again when the nurses came to bathe Grandma and kicked out the two boys. As the female member of the party, I was allowed to stay put. I looked at her vitals again. No change. Steady as she goes. I closed my eyes.

I awoke for the last time around 6 or so in the morning. Her vitals had stayed steady all night. Perhaps this wasn’t the end. Maybe it would happen while I was back in Ohio. It was Sunday and I had to go back home that day. I was exhausted. What was I going to do now?

The nurses changed shifts. My uncle and cousin needed to go back to their hotel. My uncle needed to sleep and Andrew needed to catch a plane back to Arizona. Uncle Vincent said he would call someone to come relieve me of our vigil so that I could go home to shower and change. He was happy that I would stay until he could come back. They left around 7:30.

I typed on Facebook, chronicling how strong and stubborn Grandma was. I called John and some friends for moral support. I chatted with the nurse who had been there Friday when I arrived and was back again on Sunday for her shift. The nurse from the previous shift hadn’t left yet. They had both been amazing to me while I was there. They really took care of our family in addition to caring for my Grandma.

At one point in my small talk with the arriving nurse, she and I both turned to look at my grandmother. We had both noticed that her breathing was getting slower and becoming more labored. I knew what this meant. The nurse checked Grandma with her stethoscope. I said to the nurse, “please let me know when I need to start calling folks.”

Now, she said. Do it now.

How long?

A minute or two.

Suddenly, shit got very real very quickly. I put on the hospital gown and gloves required when dealing with a MRSA patient. I called my uncle and told him to call everyone else because this was happening now. NOW. Right now.

And then I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I held Grandma’s hand and talked to her while the doctor monitored her. Only the doctor could officially pronounce her dead. I stood there feeling like a lost little girl and the pain and sadness and grief all hit me like a tidal wave. I said what I knew to say. I told her it was okay to go. I told her I knew how hard she’d worked all her life, but that she could go on to be with Granddaddy, her parents, and her siblings who had all gone before her. I told her that her work was done here and she could rest now.

I told her one lie. I said that she could go and that I would be okay. I knew it wasn’t true, but I said it anyway. I wanted her to go in peace and not hang on for anyone she was leaving behind. She had worried over us long enough.

While I was talking to her and sobbing in horrible agony, the doctor told me she was gone. It was secretly exactly what I had hoped for. She waited until it was just her and me. Once again, we were in our own little bubble and the world went on all around us. This was her last gift to me, her last lesson to teach me. I had stayed with her to the end. She was always afraid to be alone. She had not died alone and I had seen to that.

The nurse who had just gone off duty came to hug me. The doctor asked if I needed a chaplain. Suddenly, I was the focus of their care. They could do no more for my Grandma. I sat and cried tears that were bitter with the deepest grief I’d ever felt until then. The other nurse asked me what I needed. My reply was simple: a shower, something to eat, and my Grandma. I wanted my Grandma back.

Most of the rest of the day is a blur. My uncle and Andrew arrived. Uncle Vincent went straight over to his mother’s side. Andrew ran straight over to me and threw his arms around me. He knew. He understood. We had lost our grandmother, but I had lost my life’s guiding light. He asked if I was okay and he tended to me for the rest of the time he was there.

My parents came. My dad was desolate. My mom kept trying to boss me around and be the center of attention. I am not proud of the fact that I swore at her, but she wouldn’t leave me alone. She couldn’t understand what I’d been through. She kept asking when I was coming back to her house to get my stuff and drive back to Ohio. Didn’t she understand?

I couldn’t leave Grandma alone. I wasn’t leaving her side until they took her from the room. I had promised I would stay with her until the end and it wasn’t over yet.

Mary understood. She had been alone with Granddaddy when he passed. She knew the anguish like no one else around me knew. She stayed with me.

I helped remove the tubes and IVs from Grandma’s body. I helped clean her up and put her in the body bag. I zipped the bag myself. Closure. I didn’t leave her. I kept my promise and stayed until the end. It was all there was left that I could do. I watched as they wheeled her away.

The blur of grief continued in the next week as I went home and prepared to go back with my family to Philly for the funeral a week later. I sang “Grandma’s Hands” while my cousin Matthew played guitar. I played solo Bach as a prelude. I broke down as I followed her casket out of the funeral home. The preacher was reciting Psalm 23. It was the first Bible verse Grandma had taught me so many years ago. I watched John carry her casket to the hearse, just as he had done for my grandfather six years before. I fell down and wept and my heart broke to pieces. How could she leave me? What was I going to do without her?

Go on. Just as she had, I have gone on. She had shown me all I needed to survive. She had seen me grow up, marry, have kids, and be happy. Her job was done, just as I’d said to her. I may have lied when I said I’d be okay, but she knew it was true because she’d given me every tool I needed to be okay.

Grandma isn’t really gone. She’s with me every day. I see her sometimes, smiling at me. I hear her laughter. I hear her voice coming out of my mouth so many times. She lives on in me. She lives on.

There are no words to express the love she showed me. All I can do is love those around me as fiercely as she loved. All I can do is keep trying to make her proud. That is the only thank you worthy of her love for me and mine for her. After all, it’s what she taught me.

I love you, Grandma. Memory eternal. Be at peace.