I don’t see her very often. Three times in three years is not enough.

My grandmother is 77 and when I walk into her apartment at the care facility, she sits awaiting her oldest granddaughter. All done up in her wheelchair with her bad leg raised, dressed nicely and wearing her jewelry. Tonight is like a little celebration.

The framed picture of David and myself I gave her last winter stands atop the large oak cabinet; a spot previously reserved exclusively for portraits of her two deceased husbands (and a holy Mary statue).
Am I dead to her? Did I move too far away? I just can’t decide whether it’s that or a sign she cares about me tremendously. Let’s assume it’s the latter.

I love and miss you, oma.