We always think there is more time.

I should really know better.

Last night my grandma passed away.

When I was little, she lived with us.  The first of many relatives to reside in our basement.  I remember how soft her skin was.  (I used Oil of Olay religiously for years because that’s what she used.)  My room was in the basement too.  And rather than tell my parents I was scared to be down there, I would crawl into bed with my grandma, much like J does with us now.  (Though I was much more than 3.  That’s probably why I cut him a little slack.)

She sang.  And painted.  And sewed.  She made me a green paisley vest in junior high school and I wore it for years.

She took care of people.  Four children first, by herself since my grandpa died relatively young.  Then us.  Then her own parents.

She was the only other member of the family to have breast cancer, although she had hers around 70, I think.

Somewhere I have the picture I wanted to use today.  Taken when she was just 17, about the time she was married.  Sadly I can’t find it.

I’m sorry I didn’t call more, Grandma.  I love you.  I thought I had more time.