I still think of you all the time.
When we were all there with you, those last few days, I remember thinking, we should have another family reunion later, when we’re not waiting for something so sad to happen.
I sat next to you for hours and read as you slept. Your consciousness drifted back and forth between the place we both were and the place you were going next, without me.
You opened your eyes, once, and asked if I remembered my little yellow raincoat, the one I had when I was three. Some time later, you asked if I remembered the time we boiled a clam I found in the lake.
Later still, you said we made a nice family, and I agreed.
I don’t often think of those last days, though. Mostly, I think of things you said (“My stars and bars!”) and did. Things you knitted. Things you cooked and baked. The way you laughed, the way you walked; your snowy hair. The stories you told me as we played cards on lazy Sunday afternoons. Working the crosswords with the big paperback cheat books, as you called them. Listening to you name the flowers and birds as we strolled to the lake. The way some of your teeth came out at night and were left to sleep alone in a water glass on the counter.
I think of the time you found a snake in our basement and killed it with a hockey stick.
I think of how I wrote you eight-page letters as a lonely freshman in college, and how you wrote long letters back. Tucked inside there were always Marmaduke cartoons to make me laugh, and crisp dollar bills so I could buy myself a Coke.
I think of the time we were lost in rural Wisconsin after a cousin’s wedding reception. You guided us home through the inky black night, using only your voice and a map that lived somewhere in the far reaches of your mind.
I think of how thankful I am that I have a picture of us hugging after my wedding. (It makes me promise the universe that I will take more pictures, because every passing moment is a precious one.)
I think of these things, and so much more.
On the worst days, I think of how much I wish I could see you walking with my own two little ones, stopping to show them the Queen Anne’s lace and the devil’s paintbrush, or pointing a long finger skyward at the chickadees and the goldfinches.
Things I can do: Snuggle their little bodies up in afghans that you knitted with your two capable hands. Feed them your baked apples and your schaum tortes. Teach them the card games we played, and when they beat me, I’ll exclaim, “Son of a GUN!”
A few days before you died, I heard my mother ask you if you were scared, and you said no. I could tell that you really meant it. Your faith had made you sure of things.
It felt really good to write you this letter, Gramma. If I get an envelope in the mail next week with Marmadukes and a crisp dollar bill, though, I might freak out a little. So don’t go through the trouble, okay? I know you love me, and that makes me happy. It always did, and it always will.
I don’t know what it’s like where you are, but I picture you floating on a warm fluffy cloud, laughing and drinking happy hour Manhattans with Grandpa. I hope it’s fun, there. I hope you’re happy.
I miss you.