My
grandmother's been dead for a year and two months, and my
mom just found one of those fill-in memoir books in her closet
that my grandmother had started writing in and had dedicated to
me, her first grandchild. In it is facts and details about her
childhood and adolescence, and upon looking through it one
tidbit that made me emotional was her writing that when my mom
was born, my great-grandpa brought my grandma a dozen red roses
at the hospital and she said that to that day, years later as
she was writing that down, no one had ever brought her a dozen
red roses again. I desperately wish she had mentioned that to
me at some point while she was alive. I would have happily
brought her some on our last Mother's Day together, or when
I came to visit her while she was sick and dying. Now all I can
do is bring twelve red roses to her grave, and that is what I
plan to do on her birthday this
year.
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