Proud.

My grandma died this week.

She was my last living grandparent.

I will always picture her

sitting on my living room couch,

doing crossword puzzles.

When I was little,

her house meant

her collection of salt & pepper shakers,

the canopy bed in my mom's old bedroom,

the organ in the basement,

The Family Circus comic books.

In high school,

the first day in chem lab,

we turned on the burners

and I said,

"Oh, this smells like my grandma's house."

That baby in that picture is my grandmother.

She was born in a tiny place in Utah,

but when she married my grandpa,

she went with him to Las Vegas

and then Maryland.

We never talked to each other much,

but I remember the day we ate lunch together

and I asked her about what presidents she voted for

when she was young.

My grandma played the piano.

I remember so well

when my mom told me

that she was proud of me

because I played well.

My heart swelled with pride.

I remember when she sent me a card

and said she was proud of me.

I remember the one year

I was kind enough

to call her on her birthday.

I called,

said happy birthday

and hung up.

And I loved Christmas this year.

After we read the Christmas story

from the scriptures,

we sang carol after carol.

And she wanted us to keep singing.

For my mother's life,

and in turn for my own life,

I am indebted to her--

for leaving her father's house

and making her own life.

For Christmas one year,

she gave me 8 pairs 

of these wonderful fuzzy socks.

When I found out she died,

I wanted put some on.

I think it was a miracle that I found a pair.

They should have all been in the wash.