I wonder what my grandma would think of my life right now if she were still here. At the very least, she’d be proud of how hard I’m trying to write even though I keep failing. I think she would have really liked some of the stuff I’ve written. I think she’d tell me my blog can be slightly depressing. After she died I found folders stuffed with scraps scribbled full of poetry in my chunky adolescent handwriting, loopy teenage cursive, and adult double spaced manuscripts. That woman kept every sentiment I ever wrote down. She’d make photocopies of notebook paper stained with my words before I would tear the original to shreds. I wonder what she’d think about how now I publish my soul’s interior on the internet for complete strangers to indulge in. By now, since she died, I would have called her crying about a new heartbreak or three, I would have spent two more birthdays with her and celebrated one more degree. I could’ve used her advice on at least a hundred things. I likely wouldn’t have made some of the same decisions if she was around to witness the aftermath (see: the previously mentioned heartbreaks). And oh, some of the books I’ve read – how I would’ve loved to turn the last page, pick up the phone and ramble about the twists and plot holes and endings. I would have been able to make that casserole for her – I’d just learned how to perfect the recipe and told her all about it the last time I saw her. She would have marveled at my new apartment and my latest whatever-else-I-am-doing. I wonder if the birds and the rabbits and the deer feel her absence, too. I wonder if they’re curious about what happened to all that food she’d put out in the feeders and the yard each morning. I wonder how long it took them to realize they should start looking elsewhere to eat. That’s the thing about missing someone so bad, though – there is no looking elsewhere. No one else reads books like they did. No one else gives advice like they did. No one else tells stories like they did. No one else could love me the same exact way that she did. I don’t know what she’d say about a lot of things that have transpired since she died, but I think she’d be glad to know that lately I’m more myself than I’ve ever been. And I’m starting to love me like she did.