On this day 61 years ago, my paternal grandmother died. I always think of her on this day, but wish I could remember more about her. I had just turned four a week and a half before she died, so my memories are vague at best. My older cousins have always spoken fondly of her. My mother thanked her for teaching her how to cook. My father still misses his mother. I seem to have this feeling of loss, but not that she died, but that I never got to know her. I am mourning something I never really had. And somehow, that hurts more than mourning someone I really knew. Don’t get me wrong, I am still mourning my own mom, and probably will for the rest of my life in one way or the other. Somethings seem too big to get over. How I feel about my grandmother is hard to put into words. What I remember about her is good, and I find that comforting, but I so wish I knew more. Even after all these years, I am still sorting out my feelings. Missing something I never really had is a kin to how I feel about being childless despite the efforts of doctors and years of disappointment. That ache is almost like what I feel about Grandma. Well, today on the anniversary of her death, I pray that she is in heaven. And I pray for those that loved and now miss her. I wish I had known her. Rest well, Grandma, I’ll get to know you in heaven, I hope.