Remembering Her

A year ago today, I lost my grandmother.
Her life was beautiful.
I want to share with you the post I wrote the day she met with Jesus.

I Wish You Would Have Met Her

I watch intently as my grandma sits on her vanity bench, carefully applying her makeup. She puckers up as she puts her lipstick on and it makes me giggle. With one hand she gently touches up her hair while she bats her eyes at the mirror. She is beautiful, and I am mesmerized by her. She looks at me and asks if I want some blush for my cheeks. I nod and cuddle close to her while she applies the pink color to my face. I smile and gaze into her hazel eyes.


My grandma and I sing together in the car. We have our own special and favorite songs. She is the only one that never criticizes my singing. I feel so free, so accomplished. I love our car rides together.

Once, my grandmother gets pulled over. The officer approaches the car and my grandmother bats her beautiful eyes at the young officer. He shakes his head with a smile and tells her to “be careful.” He too, has fallen to her charm. I understand, for I am under the same spell and will do anything for her.

My grandmother sings on the stage at one of her recitals. She wears a long, velvety, maroon dress. A grand piano in the background and a full house of spectators, all gathered to hear her sing. She invites me up on stage and I hold on to her leg. I am so proud of her. And she is mine, my grandma.

We sit on her bed, playing “kitchen.” I think she has just as much fun as I do. I forget that she has a weak heart, and that she needs rest. We laugh together, and I offer to put on a play for her. I perform and she claps for me, she tells me it was the best act she has ever seen.

Sitting on a kitchen stool I watch as my grandma separates the yoke from the white. One smooth motion as she cracks the egg and separates its contents. She pours the yoke into a small china cup and dumps a couple of teaspoons of sugar and hands it to me. I enjoy the sweet treat while she continues to bake. Later, we make flour tortillas together. We like to spread butter and sprinkle sugar on them. It is our weekend tradition.

My parents say I am being disobedient. She asks, “Ellen, won’t you do that for me?” I do, I do in a light year second, no questions asks.

I grow up, and find that I cannot stop talking to my grandma about life. I want to know what she thinks, I want her advice. She listens, she asks questions, and then I lay down with her as we watch a Mexican soap. She needs some rest, but her presence is peaceful, comfortable, and familiar. She has always been there for me.

She greets my husband with a hug and a kiss. She tells him “Pero que guapo eres mi chulo!” forgetting Andy understands some Spanish and loving that she calls him handsome. She says she is proud of me, of how I have lived my life. I want her to be proud.

I see her sitting on a chair looking outside her window, watching as birds fly by. A rosary in her hands and her lips moving. I know she woke up early and has been praying for her family, for me, my husband, my girls. She has always prayed.

Today she has closed her eyes for the last time. She celebrated her homecoming in Heaven, the life of the party. I imagine her hazel eyes sparkled as she met Jesus. Her heart, always weak, has now been restored.

But I miss her. Oh how I miss her. I wish you would have met her; you too, would have fallen to her charm.