“Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age.” — Anais Nin
My grandmother passed away early this morning, almost exactly six months after my granddad (her husband of some sixty-plus years).
She has missed him terribly since he died and spent many of her waking hours wishing for him after he was gone. The last few months have been particularly rough, and for both her and her family I believe today came as something like a release. An easement.
I was very close to both her and my granddad – we lived on a farm near theirs, and I spent almost every summer day in her care when I was growing up. She taught me and my sister how to play checkers and how to use a typewriter. She was the grownup I was brought to when I gashed open my forehead while learning to bike uphill (a scar I still have). She’s the reason I says “crimiNETly” when I’m frustrated.
She grew strawberries in her garden.
She made the very best cinnamon rolls.
I wrote about my last real visit with her and my granddad here, and I’ll let that stand, for now, as my memorial to both of their lives. In a very real way, they left us on the same day, and they will be missed.