There was a moment yesterday, as I was sitting in the atrium watching a spreadsheet being put together, when I forgot that Grandma was gone. The spreadsheet was boring me and I sighed and moved to get up and go the kitchen to see what Grandma was up to. I hadn’t realized what a refuge she was or how natural it felt to just go and sit with her in her kitchen and be given a cup of tea, or a small task (peeling, washing, chopping) and join in her conversation. God, I miss her.
She’s kept a journal everyday since 1977. They are bright and honest and full of energy. They are full of her and of memories. They’re both consoling and painful.