It's difficult to remember my grandmother, my father's mother, whose laugh and humor dubbed her the name funny grandma. I was ten when she died, too young to truly comprehend the meaning of death. She had short blonde hair and a radiant smile that would light up an entire room. Her daughter, my aunt, looks exactly like her. The only thing I inherited from her, looks-wise, is her petiteness. I'm the smallest one in my immediate family full of giants, or at least to me they are. A variety of home movies triggers memories I do not hold clearly. My memories are like broken pieces of film I can only see snippets of. I have stronger, more vivid memories of my grandfather, my mother's father. He died when I was twelve. And while I don't recall having a better understanding of death within the two years, I remember feeling more of an emotional weight with his passing, probably because I was older. I still get emotional when I hear James Taylor's "How Sweet It Is" because it's my grandma and grandpa's song and it played at his funeral. I also think of him when I watch "The Price is Right", which he watched almost every day at ten in the morning. My grandpa served in the Navy for a bit after he and my grandmother got married. Certain smells and sounds will send me back to moments with the ones that I love who are no longer here. Fireworks remind me of nights in Iowa, sitting next to my grandma on a blanket, covering my ears from the loud sounds. American flags take me back to a parade down the driveway of my grandparent's house in Maine, my grandpa leading the way waving an American flag with my sister conducting the whole thing, screaming at the top of her lungs. I remember them fondly and hold them close to my heart. Thinking of them today as the seasons change once again.
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