She would have been 86 tomorrow. I wonder what she would have been like now. I have a picture in my head; her eyes would be more hooded, her hair more strikingly white. She’d be thinner, not from losing her hearty appetite (which only death could stop), but from the relentless march of age. She’d have taken on that albino rabbit look that her only living sister now has as she nears the century mark. Her mind would still be sharp, I have no doubt. She’d be snippy, too, when she wanted to. Maybe her eyes would have faded a bit, making her “crossword puzzle books” harder to do. Maybe her already bad hearing would have gotten worse, so she’d have to turn her game shows up to an earthquaking volume. She'd scratch her head with her pinkie.
In the five years since her death, she’s missed many things. Her oldest grandchildren just turned 40. One last great grandchild, another boy, one who would have delighted her with his antics. The others are growing; the oldest, my cousin’s children, are entering high school and leaving childhood behind. They remember her, but they didn’t know her well, having grown up on the other side of the country. Ana, only 5 when great grandma died, is now old enough to have emailed with her; they both would have loved that. My oldest boy is doing the things with my dad that my brothers did with Grandpa, learning to hunt, enjoying the woods and the outdoors, wearing blaze orange and thinking he is grown up. She would have gotten a kick out of that. She liked little rednecks. He’s the last one to remember her; he saw her the day after his 3rd birthday party when we sat on her deathbed beside her and showed her his gifts. It’s one of my most treasured memories, my strong-willed and usually-less-than-cooperative boy patiently removing his gifts from a bag one by one and showing her. He talked to her in his little boy lisp. He knew. Today I can still see that knowing in him, a sense he has of what people are feeling and when they need a little boy hug.
Ben was too young, only 2 years old, but he was special to her; he was the one who came a month early to be born on Grandpa’s birthday. He's sort of our connection to heaven. Wil is my watermark. I held him, a beautiful, curly haired 4 month old, three weeks before her death, the first time I saw her after her cancer returned. He had cute little blue jeans that made her laugh, one of the last things she laughed about. She rattled on about them to all of her visitors. He’s five now, so I know how long she’s been gone. It’ll be easy to remember. I still have the pants, too.
She missed the loss of a daughter in law who’d been in her life for more than 40 years. She’s missed Christmas cookies and red lipstick. Hotdogs and buns. Cake. Her oldest children turning 60.
If she had lived another 10 years, as her big sister has, she’d have seen several more of us turn 40, the 2nd bunch of great grandkids enter high school and even begin to graduate. She would have loved all those birthday parties and graduations. Great food! I imagine we’d still be having her own annual “Happy Birthday Mary” bash. We’d be having it tomorrow, the perfect timing of her birthday falling on a Sunday. Two year old Zac would have asked for coffee. She’d have giggled. He probably would have sat on her lap, for a minute.
The Osceola girls wouldn't have been there, though. They're almost all gone now. Most of the in laws are gone too. Fortunately,with the size of her family, there'd still be plenty of people sitting around the big party room in her apartment building, eating off paper plates and discussing health problems.
I’d probably have had to make the kids kiss her when we left. For some reason it’s a chore to kiss your great grandmother; I felt the same. Come again, she’d say. And thank you for the cake!
