Grammy

Dear Peanut and Munchkin,

Today is December 1st, my mom’s birthday. She would have been 66 this year. I know she would have loved you dearly and doted on you.

She’s the reason I’m doing this, you know. I’m sure she would have been honored; but if she was still alive to know about it, I might not have realized how important it is. It’s funny how life works that way sometimes.

My mom told me some stories when I was growing up, but there is a lot we never talked about. One thing I remember, though somewhat vaguely, is something she said about her Grammy. She admired her Grammy’s full head of silver-white hair, and was always disappointed that her own hair only had streaks of grey. She also left me with the impression that they had a good relationship, though I can’t remember any details about that.

She specifically said, though, that she wanted to be called “Grammy” whenever the time came, not “Grandma” or “Granny.” I was a teenager then, and we were butting heads a lot, so in my head I scoffed at the idea. “Yeah, right. You’re nothing like your Grammy. You’ll be lucky if I even let you see your grandkids.” Fortunately, I didn’t say any of that out loud. It would have hurt her deeply.

There’s no way to know what your relationship with her might have been. But when I talk to you about her, I call her your “Grammy,” because it’s the right thing to do.

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