How many years must go by before I stop remembering?
Before I stop looking at the calendar and remembering the events?
Before I stop marking time from March 31st until April 3rd?
How many years must go by before I forget her sitting there all proper and tidily coifed and polished?
Before I forget the baby blue and powder pink?
Before I forget the sound of her tick-tick heart and the feel of her small hands on mine?
How many years will I silently weep on this date and remember that it was this time “so many years ago” that I got the call?
I’m a grown woman and, yet, I feel like a small child during this week and I miss my Grandma so.
I miss the sound of her voice singing along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir that blasted forth from the stereo or the television.
I miss the mischievous and progressively less proper things she would do and say as she got older.
I miss the way she would let me lay my head on her lap while we relaxed on the slippery brown leather couch.
I miss the smell of coffee and bacon, sugar cookie dough and minestrone soup and her famous tomatoe-garlic-cucumber salad.
I miss the sound of the birds in her trees, the vision of pink chiffon curtains floating on the morning breeze and the menagerie of knick knacks on every possible horizontal space.
I miss my Grandma…
