My grandmother died a year ago yesterday, and I can’t believe it.
It’s strange because near the end of her life she didn’t like a lot of visitors, so there are still days when I forget she’s gone since I wasn’t used to seeing her much anyway.
And then I remember she’s done, as you do, and it’s strange and sad and makes me wish I’d called more, done more, been more. It sounds strange, but I miss knowing she is there even though we hardly talk.
The thing is, though, that she had a long and wonderful life, or at least I hope that’s how she felt at the end. She missed my grandfather terribly and I think she was more than ready to go, something that gives all of us comfort. I think that’s one of the strangest pieces of grief and loss, the knowledge that someone was ready to not be here anymore but wishing they were all the same.
I can’t wait to tell Beck about her. She was fiercely fabulous and quiet and proper all at the same time.