Letter to My Dead Gramma

 Dear Gramma,

You would be over 100 right now were you still alive.  111 really.  Wow, that is old!  I remember your telling me that you would sometimes look in the mirror and wonder who on earth that old wrinkly lady was staring back at you.  I sometimes feel the same way now. I peer at myself, not with any sense of disgust, but rather curiosity around this 48-year-old oddity with grey steaks who looks like an older version of myself, but turns out is me.  Turns out aging is a “thing” that does happen eventually no matter how many under eye creams you buy, collagen powders you consume and facials you get.

So much has changed since you died in 2004 (besides my youthful skin and chestnut colored hair.) I’m not sure what you would think of it all now. Remember when I called you on my cell phone from a farmers market in Charleston, South Carolina and we both marveled about how I could reach you from the middle of the outdoors, unattached to a cord inserted into a wall.   

TRIP TO GRAMMA's

(Written in 2004)
Gramma is quieter than she used to be. She doesn’t ask detailed questions the way she once did. She was the only person who actually cared about the minute particulars of your plane trip over. “Well, now, what did they serve?” “How many flight attendants were there?” “Now, when you got into your seat, was the window shade pulled up or down?” These things actually interested her and she was rapt with attention at your description of the temperature of the cabin. She is forgetful now and more easily fatigued. The lilting laughter that used to infuse her sentences is less frequent. And the spark in her one good eye has become more of a dim flame. “No one should live this long” she tells me over dinner that night. We are sitting in the communal dining room of her home in Minneapolis, un upscale housing residence for senior which has nightly movies and knitting groups that you can join. At 97 She has outlived two husbands, 2 sisters, a brother, a son, and the majority of her close friends.