Everybody Misses Their Grandma When She's Gone

It's been a weekend of thinking of my grandmother. (When I say "grandmother" I mean my mother's mother because of this.) On Saturday Mr. T, Mr. O, and I went and did some gardening with the Social Justice Learning Institute, which took me back to my grandmother's rows and rows of tomatoes and other vegetables growing in her backyard. She was never without a garden until she was physically incapable of growing one.

And every Easter Sunday, I think of how I used to put on a fancy dress, get my hair pressed to perfection, buckle on some patent leather shoes, and pile in my father's silver Mercury Monarch to take a lily to her house. I remember sitting in her kitchen dyeing eggs and placing the completed pink, blue, and lavender ones in that fake green grass we use to line Easter baskets. She's the one who turned me on to jellybeans, and they're still my favorite candy.

I know you'll understand my reminiscing. After all, everybody misses their grandma when she's gone.


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