I got the text to call when I had a minute. I had some stuff going on, so I waited. I finally called and got the news. I didn't expect that. I hung up and the tears came. I didn't expect to hear that she was gone. I've been worried about the health of so many others, but not her. She hasn't really been with us for a number of years. Her body's been there, but her mind was either trapped or moved elsewhere.
The last time I saw her was a party at the nursing home, maybe for last Christmas. They wheeled her out, but she didn't know most of us. She had glimpses of lucidity, but the gears just weren't catching. I think the last time I remember her as her was some right after my daughter was born.
We take for granted the people in our lives. We go through the motion of day-to-day living, assuming our loved ones will always be there. We don't take the time to call or visit because "we're just too busy." I stopped taking the time for her after college. I was teaching, coaching, going to school. I got married, divorced, remarried, had kids. I didn't call, I didn't visit. I invited her to celebrations. I spent time with her when we were at the same place, but I didn't make an effort. For that, I am truly remorseful. She was a special lady.
When my parent adopted me, there was a law that for the first year of my life with them, I could not be cared for by non-family members. That meant while my cousins all went to daycare as infants, I went to her house. It must have made an impression on me, because I remember as a three-year-old throwing a small tantrum that I would not go back to Miss Lee's, I wanted to go to her house. Since my fits were pretty spectacular, and even at that age I was headstrong, my parents acquiesced. So until I went to kindergarten, my days were spent with her.
I remember kneeling on the kitchen chair, rolling out dough for chicken and dumplings. I remember her chasing a snapping turtle into a garbage can with a broom so she could make turtle soup. I remember frozen glazed donuts, heated in the toaster oven, for breakfast. Each day after nap, I'd get to watch Mr. Rogers; our game was always guessing which color sweater he would choose. I remember VBS at the Lutheran Church. After I started school, I would go to her house on holidays. She'd always send me to the basement where I'd bring up a jar of blackberries or pickles or some other goody she had canned and knew I loved. I drank my milk out of a plastic coffee cup that was kept just for me. It's probably still there. I can remember her giving me a perm when I was four and I cried because I was afraid my mom wouldn't recognize me with curly hair. I remember being driven to her house every year on Halloween until I stopped trick or treating because she wanted to see me in my costume. Most of all, I remember she loved me unconditionally.
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