A year after Grandma’s passing, I returned to her grave, carrying her last request in my heart and a few cleaning supplies in my hands.
“One year after I’m gone,” she had whispered, her eyes steady as she held mine, “clean my photo on my headstone.
Just you. Promise me.” So, there I was, ready to honor her wish.
But as I lifted her weathered photo frame, I found something hidden behind it that took my breath away.
My grandma, Patricia—or “Patty” to the lucky ones who knew her—was my anchor, my universe.
The quiet in her house feels wrong now, like a melody that’s lost its harmony.
Sometimes I forget she’s gone and reach for the phone to call her, only to remember with a pang of loss.
But even in death, she had one last surprise for me… one that would alter everything.
“Rise and shine, sweet pea!” Her voice, warm as the morning sun, still lingers in my mind.
Every day of my childhood began with her gentle hand brushing my hair, humming old songs she said her mother had taught her.
She’d laugh, calling me her “wild child,” saying I was just like her in her younger years.
“Tell me about when you were little, Grandma,” I’d beg, sitting cross-legged on her bathroom rug.
She’d smile, her eyes twinkling, and begin, “Well, I once hid frogs in my teacher’s desk drawer.
Can you imagine?” And when I gasped, she’d add, “My mother said, ‘Patricia, even the toughest hearts can be softened by the smallest kindness.
’ So I stopped catching frogs… for a little while, anyway.”
