Five Years Later
It’s been five years as of today. I was shocked when I realized how long it’s been. It doesn’t seem like it’s been over five years since the last time we laughed together, since I got a hug from you, or since you told me you loved me. I still pick up the phone to call you about something ridiculous that happened only to remember I can’t, and I still think I ought to drive up to see you only to realize that you’re not there. Every single time I get a contract, I wonder what you’d say if I could tell you. You always said I was going to be an author, from the time I was little. I wish you’d lived to see it.
I wish I could stop crying every time I think about you. There are so many really great, happy memories that I have about you that should be making me smile. I suppose everyone has their own time, but you’d be horrified that I’m crying because of you. And then you’d probably whack me on the back of the head with one of your canes and tell me to knock that crap off.
But somehow, I can’t seem to.
And then I remember how, standing there at your funeral, I suddenly thought to myself, “Wow, even her casket is short.” Because, seriously. Short. And then I remember how I’d pulled my brother aside later, telling him how horrible I felt for even thinking that during your funeral. And I remember him saying “Oh thank god, I wasn’t the only one who thought that.”
I still feel like that thought was you, getting in a last laugh, because you couldn’t stand to see us all weeping.
And yeah, then I’m still crying, but I’m laughing, too. Because that would have been so totally like you.
After all, your last words to me were “mischief creates memories that we always remember, much more so that the everyday things of life”.
I love you, Granny. And I hope that wherever you are, you’re still causing mischief.