My grandma died on Wednesday, and I’m not going to write about that here except to say that I am grateful I was able to be with her in her last days.
I remember the electric typewriter in her guest bedroom, how in the long afternoons leading up to Sunday dinners, while she was in the kitchen skimming the fat off a simmering meat sauce or making German potato dumplings and gabbing with the aunts, I would hide away and write the beginnings of stories. When I needed supplies, she would give me stacks of dot matrix paper and bottles of white out. When I needed inspiration, she would tell me about her family, and I vowed that someday I would write a book about them.
She went one day short of the two-year anniversary of my grandpa’s death. I loved her.
Writing is my safe place, my solace, so I kept working on the pond novel throughout the week, mostly on the dinner scene. I didn’t make much progress, but that’s not always the point.
Thanks to everyone who’s been there for me and my family this week. You know who you are, and I appreciate you.
And she loved you.
So very sorry for your loss. She sounds like a beautiful, supportive woman.