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My mother’s mother died at Christmas, 1956. I was born in May 1957. I was not the 1st grandchild on her side of the family, but my mother was my grandmother’s oldest child, and I am my mother’s oldest child, so there would have been that connection. All my life, as I grew up and discovered a love of putting together puzzles, of reading, of rainy days, my mother told me how much like HER mother, Emma, I was. All my life, I have felt a stong, deep connection to this woman I never met, who married a man she loved, but who was terrible for her, who loved to read mysteries, who battled “the blues” before it was fashionable to call it depression. Somehow, through some bone-deep connection that cannot be explained, I know that when I die, her face will be the first one I see waiting for me in whatever form “the other side” takes.

Now that I am a grandmother, the relationship that we might have had becomes even more precious and wistful in my heart. I couldn’t possibly fit all the asking and telling that I would want to do in an hour, but if it were to happen, she’s the one I’d want to spend it with.

Grumpy Granny