When I let the still, dark light of an early morning creep in through the windows, and when no noise can be heard but the hum of the air conditioner or the pitter patter of a fizzling rainstorm; that's when I find it hardest not to think about.
I think about how you probably won't take my kid for a week in the summer. You won't go to the store and buy her candy and chips and soda. I won't be able to scold you for letting her eat junk food for an entire week.
I think about how I can't trust you to hold my little girl unless you're sitting down. And how I have to stay close in case you get tired or dizzy.
I think about how she'll say Grandma, but she probably won't be thinking of you.
And I probably won't be able to invite you to her high school graduation. I won't be able to cry to you about how fast she's growing up. I won't be able to call you and anxiously plead with you to tell me that teenagers grow up into tolerable human beings.
She might never have some of grandma's no-bake cookies. And she won't get an outrageously large stocking at Christmas time.
I imagine trying to explain to her how beautiful grandma was. I think how I would explain grandma's humor, her way of showing love with food and servitude.
I don't want to act like everything is already over, because it's not. But the woman you were is not who you are anymore. Your weakness, your sadness, they are so hard to see. They make my heart ache.
So today, instead of listening to that voice that asks how long, I'll think of how we can make the most of what we have. A weekend visit. A 50th birthday party that I hope you're not too sick for. Two years ago I didn't think we'd be celebrating this, so let's do.
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