Grandma died almost 6 years ago. I find it hard to believe it's been that long. The pain is still fairly raw at times. There are days I sit to write her a letter only to remember she would never get it. Times that I want her advice and wisdom to guide me through this maze of life. At other times when I'm feeling vulnerable, I just want to lay my head on her lap again and feel her gentle hand stroking my hair. I miss her so much!
About a year after she died, we went to her house to pick out what we wanted. I didn't want anything big or expensive. I just wanted the memories. I wanted things that I had grown up with. Things that meant something. One of those items I chose was a hand crocheted afghan that she had made. It had been in the basement, hiding in a corner as if it had been waiting for me. I was surprised nobody had snatched it up.
I brought it home along with my other treasures. There it made its home on our couch. Every night while watching TV, I would wrap up in the kaleidoscope of color and breathe in its scent. It smelled so completely like Grandma. The smell brought me home to her side and gave me peace.
All these years, even after several washings, it has held her scent. I often marveled at this. How is that even possible? I like to think it was her way of slowly weaning me off of the pain of losing her. Or that God knew what was to come in my life when I was forced to face my demons and knew I would need a piece of her to lead me through the darkness.
Today I held it to my face to breathe in her sweet essence once again. It wasn't there. It was gone. I panicked and began sniffing spot after spot hoping....hoping.
Nothing.
My heart felt a nudge of sadness and the sting of loss.
Now all I hold are the memories and my treasures. Maybe it's just time.
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