Granny
Today would have been Granny’s ninety-third birthday.
We talk about Granny a lot around here. It’s hard not to think of her often, because she was so integral to my childhood. Now that I’m navigating my own children’s childhood, I’m reminded of her not just on holidays, but every day.
When I cut a peanut butter sandwich into four squares, which I’ve christened “Granny squares”.
When I bake spritz cookies and the deliciousness permeates the house.
When Kyle makes mashed potatoes from scratch with real butter.
When the kids use ketchup and I reminisce about my grandfather sitting down to dinner with a stack of white bread and ketchup.
When I play Lego with the kids, clean up after a game of Chutes and Ladders, or remind them to use both sides of the paper.
I only have a few things that used to belong to Granny: a small walnut table, a set of brass candlesticks, and my framed school picture from freshman year that used to sit on a shelf in her basement. But I don’t need her things in order to feel close to her. My memories of her are far more precious than mere objects.
I sit with Oliver on my lap, and as he rests his head on my shoulder and tugs at my hair, I cry. Because in spite of all of my wonderful memories, I still regret that she never got to meet my son.
Granny, I miss you. I hope you knew how much you meant – and still mean – to us.
