Confession: I can never remember the day my grandmother died.
I have to look back at my blog to figure it out. I find this particular post and it makes me cry. I think about my grandma's laugh. I'd hoped that I wouldn't forget her voice and, if I sit very still and concentrate very hard, I can still hear it. But her laugh, that sudden burst of mirth that seemed to begin in the depths of her soul before bubbling quickly out of her smile, is always, always present. I need only to think on it for a moment before I hear it so loud and so clear that she may as well be sitting right next to me.
I wonder if she knew how deeply she would be missed. I wish I could go back in time and hold her hand and say, "I will miss you more than I can say. I will think about you more often than I know."
The thing about my grandma is this. I was always made to feel like her favorite. I haven't asked my cousins but I think my brother probably feels like he was her favorite. I think the great mystery is that, maybe, we were all her favorite.
On this fifth anniversary of her death, I celebrate her life. I thank God that I still have three living grandparents and am blessed with the privilege of seeing them when we're in California.
Still...I miss her.
Still...I hear her laughing.