No More Jive Turkey

My grandmother raised me. She taught me to walk, to talk, to potty, to cook, to eat, to pray and to love. I remember racing across the room to jump in her chair and declare myself the winner (she let me win every time). I remember every silly superstition (don't split poles with people you love!). I remember every family tradition (always take a broom, a dollar, and a loaf of bread to your new house). I remember every secret recipe (rice pudding, anyone?).

I remember her holding my hand and walking me to school. I remember her helping me with my homework, mostly by reading the instructions out loud. I remember every after school treat. I remember her teaching me about love, life, and morals by way of "The Young and The Restless", "The Bold and The Beautiful", and "Another World".

I remember the late night conversations about boys. I remember the hand-written letters and personally selected cards. I remember every hug and every encouraging word. I remember how often she told me that I made her proud.

I remember when she got breast cancer. I remember when she chose to have a double mastectomy. I remember caring for her that whole summer. I remember the way she cried when she tried to thank me aloud. I remember the hug and kiss were enough.

I remember how hard she worked to care for her father at the end. I remember how frail he looked, how weak he was, and how hard she cried when he finally died. I remember walking with her to his grave every year to take him flowers.

I remember the day they took her driver's license. I remember the day I noticed her hair was all gray. I remember the first time I saw her fall. I remember having to convince her to leave her home so she could be somewhere safe.

My Gramma is dying and the thought that there won't be anything else to remember is too much to bear.