I don’t really know my grandparents. I mean, technically I do; I know that they’re my dad’s parents, and they live about a half hour away from my house. But when I picture walking into their house, I have no idea what they would say. Would they run up and hug me, eager to spend time with their granddaughter they almost never see? Would my grandmother yell hello from the kitchen as she’s making dinner? I don’t think she cooks very much, but then again, she has a nice kitchen. That’s the other thing. I know their house better than I know them. If I walked in while they weren’t home, I know exactly what it would look like, what the carpets would feel like on my bare feet. I bet I could find the very spot my little sister threw up on their nice white carpet when she was a baby. I know my grandparents’ carpet better than I know them.

My best friend’s grandfather passed away while we were in 5th grade, and I overheard our moms talking about it. Her mom said they regretted not spending enough time with him in his last years. When I heard that, I vowed not to let that same thing happen to me. And yet, though my grandparents are still living and perfectly healthy, if they were suddenly gone right now, I know for a fact that I would regret not spending time with them in their last years.

As I’m driving to visit them for the first time in years, it seems strange that I don’t recognize the way to their house. I couldn’t tell you, “turn left at the yellow house with the flagpole out in front, then right on the gravel road”. These are made up directions, designed to comfort me about the fact that I don’t recognize the street they live on.

There are so many things I had forgotten about them which I suddenly remembered as I was visiting them, and by now I’ve forgotten them again. Though this hasn’t ended yet, I wish I could say that I’ve tried to spend more time with them. In reality, how often we visit is not my decision to make.