Over the last few days, I’ve been feeling a little down.  I understand one’s mood can ebb and flow so being a little melancholy isn’t earth shattering for me, but this lasted days, maybe three, and that seemed odd.  Try as I might, I couldn’t quite pull myself out of my funk.

Then yesterday, I realized, last Friday would have been my grandmother’s birthday.  She passed away almost three years ago and for some reason, this year, even though I think about her daily, her birthday seemed to have slipped my mind.  Now I realized what had been wrong, I was missing my Grandma, maybe a little more than usual, and I didn’t connect the dots to her birthday.

When I spoke to my grandfather this week, as usual, we spoke about her.

“I miss her alot – I think about her every single day,” I told him.

“Really?” He asked, seeming surprised.

“She was your best friend,” he continued.

rsz_3new_orleans_1980And with that, I got choked up.  It may sound odd for a boy (and now a man) to call his Grandma his ‘best friend,’ but really, for a long time, she was.  Starting when I was five, I spent summers with my grandparents and while Grandpa worked, Grandma and I explored.  She took me everywhere in and around New Orleans and then New York City, exposing me to rich culture and people most small children are shielded from – she also taught me to swim!

As I grew up, left home, and started my own life, we remained close.  Our phone calls would often last for hours at a time, with my ear getting hot from the phone.  As her health failed, she would often go on and on, even repeating stories, which in my youth, I found annoying, but later began to understand and even appreciate.

She was the first family member I was close with to pass away and her death rocked my family in a way I didn’t know possible.  I do think about her and miss her every day. Sometimes I wonder if she’s looking down on me and what she’s thinking about.  Mostly, I hope she’s catching up with family and friends and just enjoying herself.