April 19th would have been my grandma’s birthday. 95, I think. Some of the folks I chat with at the nursing home talk about living to 110. She didn’t want that.
I don’t talk to myself but I did that day. I talked for a few awkward minutes as if I was catching up with her. I told her about the three hour drive I was on to the Washington coast to see someone I love. I talked to her about my life in Seattle. I wondered what new books she’d read. I trailed off at the end as the tears took place of my words.
I arrived at the coast, worked away, and snapped photos the following day of the person I was here to see. With the rain falling and wind roaring, she ran and jumped into a puddle. A snapshot I couldn’t pass along to my grandma.