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Dear Grandma,

I’m sorry it had to end this way. The doctors said that with your spunkiness and vigor, you fooled everyone into believing you were younger and stronger than your 92 years. But four hip-replacement surgeries in a year were just too much even for you. I know you didn’t want to continue living between bed and wheelchair like it’s been for the past year. Maybe you got what you wanted. I know the loss of your mobility made life nearly unbearable for you. But I’m so, so sorry you’re gone.

I think I was a good granddaughter. I know you didn’t approve of the long-distance running (I’m pretty sure you were afraid my lady parts might fall out). But I’d like to think I made you proud anyway. I know you enjoyed reading this site because you’d comment in your own Grandma way, by sending hand-written notes, usually accompanied by newspaper clippings. It was a steady trickle of love, those letters, and I regret not writing back more often. (And yes, maybe I will look for a marshmallow recipe that uses egg whites.)

You didn’t mind telling people what you thought they ought to do with their lives, and your letters often included unsolicited advice. I certainly did not always agree. But that’s OK.

You made your mark on the world in lots of different ways, but I will always remember you in the pool in your big floppy hat. You taught hundreds, maybe thousands of little kids how to swim. I can picture you waist-deep in the neighbors’ pool, encouraging a toddler to let go of the wall to swim into your arms, cheering. Teaching kids to love the water, to let go of the fear. I’m happy that I learned that lesson early.

I told my sister on Thursday, as we sat weeping into our cell phones, that I would not be surprised if I got a packet full of LA Times articles in the mail from you on Friday. So I should not have been so stunned to see a letter addressed in your unmistakable handwriting that morning, the day after you died. You mailed me a birthday card before you went into surgery. You didn’t want to miss it. I don’t think you ever did.

Dave is wearing the fleece pullover you gave him two Christmases ago. He wears it all the time; it’s really warm. I kept meaning to tell you that, but I forgot. Sorry.

I hope you’re floating in a big sparkling swimming pool somewhere, keeping your hair dry and kicking your legs with no pain.

I love you. I’ll miss you.

Love,

Ariel

June 7, 2008 11:05 PM