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************warning..........very long..........but hopefully worth reading*************
 

24 hours ago, at the time of this writing, my grandma went to Home. This was a trip she had been waiting for, well, almost two years. Grandpa had died, grandma was blind, and after almost 73 years of marriage, I guess she just didn't want to be alone. It was kind of hard to take seriously, for as long as I have known her, every conversation would end with 'talk to you soon, God willing.' After 15 years of this, one could understand the joking at my house when I would tell my husband, 'Got a letter from grandma.” His reply? 'Well, she ain't dead yet then.' When grandma would talk about being ready to go to the other side of the veil, I would tell her she couldn't. She hadn't been my grandma long enough, and she was the only grandma I had left. “Grandma, I still need you.'

See, I didn't meet grandma until I found my real dad. I won't go into the details, but when I found my dad, grandma was like a bonus. You know, the chocolate you find on a hotel pillow, or, when in the Spring you walk into your backyard and there is one perfect tulip among all the dandelions. Grandma was that kind of bonus.

Physically, grandma and I only spent time together twice; times I also spent with my dad, getting to know him and my new family, while also trying to find where I fit in at the age of thirty-five with a brother and sister the same age as my daughters and son. The last time I spent time with grandma, she, Helene (my dad's wife) and I were out shopping, and she was talking about how all her family and friends were either dead, dying, or no longer able to write, and she told us how she would miss having someone to write to. Impulsively, I told her I would write to her and I haven't regretted one moment of that correspondence. So much has and happened in my life since that time and all of it I was able to share with her. We became, what I learned the term for in Sociology, a dyad. We became a unit unto ourselves. Even with all my family surrounding me, and all of her family surrounding her, often it just seemed like the two of us.

Here are some of the things and times we shared: When I married my husband at the Little Brown Church in the Vale, she would play that hymn every night on her organ before going to bed. When I went to France with my daughters she sent a check to cover a nice meal in a fancy French restaurant, and even told me where we should go. We found that we had a love of the violin in common when I took it up at the ripe old age of 40. She had also played the violin and if I remember correctly, she was in an orchestra. She and grandpa both loved to read, and when I would write something, I would always send them a copy. My biggest fans. When she would write letters, she would always tuck in something, a newspaper clipping of my Aunt Sally's column, a church bulletin, pictures of her and grandpa, her and my dad, and other family members. It was often through her I found out family news. When her sight started going, I would type my letters in large fonts so she could have the independence of reading them on her own. It was through her that family would find out what was going on with me and mine. My children alone made her a great-great-grandma five times. The sixth is due in August.

She cheered my going back to school, asked me about my faith, and never set judgment on my beliefs, even when those in her Assisted Living Center would tell her otherwise. She would let me send her things to explain what I believed, not to challenge me or change me, or I to change her, but to learn more about me. She would then go back to her friends and report they were wrong. When she went completely blind, she started listening to books on tape, and whenever I would come across one, I bought it for her. Thank goodness for the Dollar Tree!

While grandpa was still alive I made the two of them their own fleece blankets that they loved so much they got rid of their down comforter. I knit for her a scarf, and when she called to thank me, she thanked me for the belt. She would often tell me how she was complimented on it every time she wore it down to dinner. After grandpa died, I designed and knit for her a comfort shawl. It was at the foot of her bed when she died. I like knowing that a part of me was with her when she left this earth.

The last time I talked to grandma was a Sunday afternoon. She called to talk to me about “my man” Obama and what did I think of him being a Muslim and other things like that. I remember that the conversation was funny as hell, and when we hung up, I shared it with my husband. She also loved talking to him on the phone, she would always tell me what a beautiful voice he had. That night grandma ended up in the hospital and wasn't expected to make it to Mother's Day. She did, and I got to have one last conversation with her where she told me she was upset about still being alive, to which I replied that she shouldn't have rung the buzzer for help. Her response? “I know.” How can you not laugh? I knew that this would be the last time I would probably speak with her and I told her how much I loved her and thanked her for being a really great grandma, that I would miss her, but would see her again.

For whatever reason, she hung on for almost a month; I personally believe she was hiding out from grandpa. Turns out she had some issues.

The legacy she left me is more than the beautiful violin night light she left to me. Her legacy is the 15 years of unconditional love and acceptance I received from her. When we met, our relationship was a blank slate; for she didn't know the Debbie that had problems growing up, the Debbie whose family members would whisper about and the lies that were passed around like popcorn by her mother and step-father, she was never told how I wasn't real, the Debbie who was married twice before and going at it for a third; no, she only knew I was her granddaughter and that was good enough. She was a priceless gift, for the cost of what she gave me can never have enough numbers to calculate her worth, and the package way to large to hold in my small hands.

For the rest of my life I will feel that I am missing a part of me, but only the physical part of her is gone. The part I still have, her love, will continue on through me to my six beautiful grandchildren. After all, isn't that what you do with a legacy?