No one told me that I would think of my grandma every day once she died. I didn't think of her every day when she was alive, so no, I couldn't have known, might not have believed even if some well meaning person had told me.
I see her in the grocery store as the short haired old lady with a lot of junk food gets in the check out line. In the psychic gift shop with the horribly ugly wolf dream catcher she would have loved. In the mexican restaurant with the native american painting right in front of me, like she put it there herself. And it's different than missing, this feeling I feel. I think of her so often that I'm not sure I miss her. If I miss anything, I miss not thinking of her. What I want is the choice. I want the choice to call her, the choice to touch her. The choice to send the picture of the dream catcher I've had on my phone since December that nobody else would understand (or appreciate). When I was little she let me spray her hair with a water bottle--she let me drench her, she liked the water droplets to race down her scalp and collect on her bed sheets. The last time I ever saw her, I used a water bottle to spray her hair. Thinking she had humored me as a small child, I was careful with my sprays, careful not to wet her hair too much. She spoke up, said "spray more honey," so I did. She wanted to feel the familiar sensation again, I think. She loved it. I did too. I knew this was the last time I would see my grandma, the last time I would touch her coarse hair and her soft, leathery skin. I don't think I've been more present at any other time in my life. No one told me how deep the emotion would well inside of me. I had only read soft phrases about others' loved ones dying: "I miss her so much" "She was the kindest person I have ever known" and while those may be true, they lack something. My grandma was not the kindest person I've ever known. She shamelessly flirted with younger men, she borrowed money from anyone who would let her, and she loved her dogs and gardening. I won't contain her in a word or common phrase because she was her loud laughter, her refusal to wear a bra, her love for Jesus, and so much more. Today I remembered her old brown car, uncomfortably hot in the summer time. Her yellow, clingy dog that went everywhere she did. Sandy. My grandma put Sandy in a diaper when she was in heat. When I was 8 or 9, she told me my eyes light up when I smile, and it's still my favorite compliment I've ever received. I'm glad I think about her every day. If the most I can do is make sure she's not forgotten because of my memories, I'll think of her forever.
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