#111: ruthless

Leslie F. Miller

It's been ten years since my grandmother died. It was right around March, when I usually get weepy and mopey, only this year not so much. And I didn't feel oddly compelled to wear her jewelry at Passover, so I believe she has stopped visiting me.

On Monday, my editor made my Grammy Ruth's cake—the sour cream cake that I used to adore from the time I was little. It came out perfect, and people are still stopping in her office to ask Denise to make another.

Today, it rained, and I went for a run. When I got home, I saw some beautiful little spots of water on some delicate white flowers, and I grabbed my camera and an umbrella. Before I opened it, I saw that my grandmother's name was painted on the umbrella cover. Her name is in two places when it's open, too.

Did I know I had my grandmother's umbrella?

What tickles me the most is how proud she'd be of me right now. When I was little, she asked me to make her a book of all my poems, which I added to every year. When I was in the paper, she'd clip the stories and pile them in the binder. When she died, I got custody of that binder.

Grammy, thanks for the cake and the book. So much of it came from you, and I can feel you smiling on me now, even if you'd left me for a little while.

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