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.
And 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.