My Grandmother would have been 101 years old yesterday, had she not died six years ago, just days shy of 95. I don’t mark the day of her death, just her birthday. She’d like that, I think.
She lived in England, but, as my only grandparent still alive when I was born, she was a huge figure in my life, even if I only saw her once a year. She taught me how to knit at five, ate my peas when my dad wasn’t looking, took dictation of my fish stories, and turned the end of the jumprope that wasn’t tied to the railing, so I, an only child, could learn how to jump double dutch.
She was the only person in my life who made me feel loved unconditionally.
I wish she were alive to know my kids…