When I was seven years old I had two best friends; Tyler, and my Grammie. My Grammie and I were two peas in a pod. She taught me how to play all kinds of card games, we played checkers and chess together, she was always smiling at me… such good memories.
I was born on her 72nd birthday, our favorite color was blue, her name is part of mine, our complexion was identical. I know what I will look like when I’m old. Of course, when you’re seven, old looks very far away and almost unreal.
So, I’m seven, Grammie is 79. It’s coming up on our birthday and I know she’s dying. She’s had liver cancer for (my parents say) two years now, and she didn’t want any treatment. She’s been living in our house for I can’t remember how long, and I’m used to her being there. I’m used to her eating dessert before dinner, her nitpicking everything my parents do, her telling me to “go wash up” for dinner. I’m used to the sound of her cane across the floor as she slowly can’t walk anymore. I’m used to her calling for my mom in the middle of the night for help. I’m used to her having outbursts where she forgets where she is, or that her sister has been dead for ten years and she’s screaming for her in the middle of the night. I’m used to waking up to watch my mom help my Grammie go to the bathroom at midnight.
My Grammie was born March 6, 1918.
She passed March 5, 1998.
It’s been 20 years and I still cry. I’m not sure if I cry because I miss her or my childhood.
After her death, my life has never been the same. My perspective on everything has a dark hue. Every year I get older and I’m reminded of her, how old she would be, what she would say about the world today, what she would say to me about who I’ve become, what she would think about such and such or what have you. When you have a funeral for your birthday, it sort of puts a damper on life.
I’ll never forget you, Anne. You were one spitfire woman, and you are missed every single day. I wish you didn’t leave when you did, but moreso I wish you didn’t have so much pain. I love you Grammie.
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