Friday The Thirteenth

Is a special day for us.  My Grandma was born on a Friday.  And today would have been her 95th birthday.  It’s her first birthday that we haven’t been able to celebrate with her since I can remember.

 Tonight, we are having a birthday celebration in her honor.  A tree has been planted in her memory.  And my kids will be placing special rocks at its base.  We will talk about our favorite memories of how she traveled to Florida with us twice for Thanksgiving celebrations and almost weekly family dinners for years and years.  And years.  How she was always the happiest of people with a penchant for mischief.  And toward the last few years, how dessert was a new and surprising treat.  Every time.  She would tell us that the brownies were the most delicious thing she had ever tasted and was surprised that she had never eaten brownies before.  Because every time became the first time.  Her memory loss was a blessing for making the wonderful things all the more wonderful.  And the horrible parts of aging and hospital visits completely forgotten.  Within hours. But even in the midst of this celebration and our memories, her absence has created such a hole in my daily life and family weekend dinners.  There is only so much solace to be found in the comfort that she’s in a better place and no longer in pain.  By the time my kids come home from school, I will suck it up and dry my selfish tears so I can play the part of an adult.  And then we will jump into the further planning of other celebrations, because September is a full month for us with much to celebrate.  We have eleven and nine year old birthdays in the house and a thirteen year wedding anniversary.  How did we get here so fast? What I’m finding is that as I get older, time seems to speed up more and all I want to do is slow it down.  To soak in these days with the people I love the most. 

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