I spent a lot of those days blurring through work and the nights hanging out with my kids and husband. After the kids went to bed I read a lot. And wrote. My thoughts hovered often on my Grandmother of course and the whole circle of life thing.
Thinking about her made me realize how much I missed her and wished I could've been able to talk to her more. For the last ten years she'd been in a Home suffering from Alzheimers and mostly sleeping her days away. My mother was her primary caretaker...she'd go see her every other day and on the weekends I would see her alternately with my aunts. Ten years of watching her fade a little more each day was hard.
But then I'd think about the good days, from when my brother and I were children, when my Grandmother was younger and my Grandfather was still alive. The memories are vivid, short bursts...driving through the nearby cemetary to study the old headstones and watch the huge squirrels scamper. Going fishing with my Grandfather and watching my Grandmother roll her eyes at him at his excited bellowing. Watching my Grandmother cover her eyes in terror each time Grandpa drove on the freeway (she never learned how to drive at all, scared her to death). And finally she and I sneaking "trashy romance" novels from her secret stash to read together in the recliner while Grandpa and my brother were out doing boy stuff.
She always told me to hide them from my mom, that my mom wouldn't approve. I'd giggle and we'd stuff them under cushions when mom would showed up after work on the weekends. I don't think she ever knew about those novels until I was in my late teens. It was a secret my Grandmother and I shared.
I still have that very fist novel she showed me. It's sitting on my bookcase in a place of honor. I read it at least once a year. For her.