Today would have been my grandmother’s 95^th birthday. I’m not sure if my mom knows the coincidence of traveling down to my grandma’s house this Wednesday. There’s still so much left to clean at the house; my mom has already invested in a new air conditioning unit, brand new floors and got rid of a nasty mold issue. She still says “I’m need to go to mom’s house” even though my mother and I co-own the house now.

It’s odd to travel down to The Villages, to grandma’s tiny yellow house without the anticipation of her small frame greeting us at the door. Asking us if we want something to eat. Her gentle hint that she wants to go to Walmart or the flea market. Her fluttering to and fro each room during the early morning hours, humming old spirituals. I mentally slap myself for all the times I woke up; groggy and annoyed at hearing all her sounds at 6 AM.

If only I could hear her hum one more time.

I wondered why I was so cranky today. I woke up with a hammering migraine Sunday morning which has persisted into this evening. I’m teaching at a new school this year, trading in a 20 minute commute for an hour and fifteen minute hail Mary to save my spark for teaching. This morning, I dragged myself out of bed and the only thought that kept shuffling in my head is five long five day weeks until Thanksgiving break. I snapped at my 6^th period class today, lamenting over their atrocious behavior and when my 7^th period class came in, I completely gave up on any semblance of instruction or order.

Grief has a way of not making you sweat the small stuff.

February will mark two years since my grandmother’s passing. I remember the last time I called her for her birthday; her voice strained and weak as she answered the phone. She told me it was quiet day, her lovely caretaker made her a Banana birthday cake, but she mainly rested. Our conversation was less than 10 minutes (which in hindsight was an indication of her rapid decline).  

To celebrate (impromptu and not originally a part of my slothful Monday) I am having a cup of coffee in a quaint café. Grandma loved coffee, but never went to cafes. She always made her coffee in house. And she scoffed at the idea of going to breakfast. “Why would I spend all that money on bacon and eggs when I can make it at home?”

Maybe I’ll make bacon and eggs this week and save some for her (even though her portion would be half a piece of bacon and a tiny amount of eggs. She’s “save some for later”).

It’s difficult not to fill cheated or robbed of time. Even though my grandmother lived to be 93, I often hoped we would celebrate her 100^th birthday, that she would tease my future (at this point imaginary) husband and meet my kids.

So I try to remain in gratitude. Grateful I had her in my life for 32 years. Grateful for the summers spent reading in her hot, muggy sunroom. Grateful for the stories she told of how she was a part of the Great Migration. Grateful for her sassiness and playful threats of spankings. Grateful she was able to spend time with a great great grandchild. Grateful that when she passed, she passed away in her home state in North Carolina, surrounded of pictures of all her grands as babies, in a warm cozy bed. That when she was ready to transition, she went on her own terms.

Happy 95^th birthday Grandma Montie.

With Love,

Leah