This weekend did not go as planned.
We left for our usual Fourth of July lake trip on Wednesday, despite a forecast that promised rain all weekend. My brother and his family arrived on Thursday afternoon; we hoped the weather would clear. We shared good food and managed a few hours in the water, but it turned out to be the coldest, rainiest Fourth of July I can remember. Still, being together and relaxing with family gave the holiday meaning even without sunshine.
Then on Saturday morning, my brother and I both received a text from our mother saying that our dear Grammy was very ill. She had been in and out of the hospital over recent weeks with a stubborn blood infection. At 92, her body could no longer rally the way a younger person’s could. My mother urged us to come if we wanted to see her while she was still alive.
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We finished breakfast, packed quickly, and drove more than three hours to get to her. Tragically, she passed away before we arrived. I never had the chance to tell her in person all the reasons I loved her or to thank her one last time for being such a wonderful grandmother. That ache of unfinished words and missed moments is sharp and unexpected.
Grammy and I were inseparable for as long as I can remember. She adored me, and I adored her. I was her first grandchild, and she always made me feel special. When my family moved several hours away when I was six, I would lie in bed and cry, clutching the oversized stuffed bunny she had given me. Those early bonds shaped me—her steady presence felt like home.
In recent years, her memory faded and her body became frail, but her spirit still brightened any room she entered. Even a couple of months ago when I visited, she wanted to rock me in her lap the way she always had. At thirty-two years old, I was still her baby; while I couldn’t sit on her anymore for fear of hurting her, I would nestle close, hold her hand, and soak up the comfort of her company. She was my buddy and my first best friend.
It feels surreal now that she’s gone. I still find myself looking for her in the kitchen, expecting her to walk back into the room any minute. Even when someone has lived a long, full life, saying goodbye is never easy. The house holds so many small echoes of her—her laughter, the rhythm of her voice, the habits that became family rituals.
Despite the grief, I hold on to hope and comforting memories. I imagine her reunited with my Grandy and all her brothers and sisters—she was one of eleven—playing Boggle or working on crossword puzzles together, sharing Rotel cheese dip and Ruffles potato chips, and enjoying the simple pleasures that defined their gatherings. Those images bring a smile through the sadness.
If I seem a little absent this week, please know I’m not gone—only taking time to honor and remember a woman who shaped me in countless ways. I’m reflecting on the lessons she taught me: the warmth of family, the importance of laughter, and the quiet strength of kindness. Those are the things I will carry forward.
Thank you, Grammy, for every story, every hug, every lesson, and every laugh. You were kind, sassy, generous, and beautiful in a way that touched everyone around you. I am grateful for the memories and for the privilege of being your granddaughter.
Love you, Grammy.