Grandma

I'm not usually this talkative.

As many of you know, the entries I've been writing in this blog are taken from letters I've been writing to my grandmother, knowing stories about her great-grandchildren would amuse her. She fell ill at around Thanksgiving, and she died last night. Her loving and loyal sons were at her side, which, I think, is a fine indication of a life well lived.

So I've been writing, too, for my father and my uncle, who have had a very hard and emotional few months as they cared for her constantly. And also for my wonderful mother, and my sister and her family, and my brother, who are too far away, and my aunts and uncles, whom I also love and miss. And for my husband's family, and who have made me as one of their own for fourteen years.

And, of course, I write for my funny, feisty, ridiculous children, who surely won't remember much of this year: I want them to know how brave they were, and how proud I was of them.

So I'll do my best to keep telling you our stories: I've loved hearing back from each of you, and I treasure your words of encouragement.

To all of you, my friends, you who aren't related to me and who, therefore, have absolutely no obligation to listen to me natter on: I can't tell you how grateful I am that you're interested enough in us to spend your time reading all this. Time is precious, and life is short, even when it's over nine decades long. I love hearing from you as well, and knowing you're there, looking over our shoulders, makes me so happy.

I'm on a train now, to Salzburg, and the kind Swiss woman across the aisle has watching me with great concern as I try not to cry. So I think I'll stop here comfort myself with the impressive view.

Tonight, maybe you can join Dennis and me as we raise a stein in honor of a strong, generous woman, who moved away from all of her friends so that she could be nearer to her "boys" and to my sister and brother and me as we grew up, and who gave us a lifetime of love and unconditional support. I love you, Grandma.