At five years old, I tended to do what I wanted. But there were always a few activities that my parents wouldn’t let me get away with. Activities such as visiting my grandmother in her retirement home. My parents would drag me all the way to her apartment where I would be forced to read Dr. Seuss books with my brother on her old sofa that smelled strangely of old lady. My parents would talk in the kitchen as I obliviously moped in the living room with my brother. All the while, my grandmother lay in her bed. Why? I would ask my father jokingly, Can’t she walk? My father only shook his head sadly and tried to explain that my Nani M was sick. I assured my father that she would be fine. I told him that whenever I was sick, I always got better. So, she would as well. I continued to whine as my parents forced me to her house. It was not that I didn’t love her. Of course I loved her, she was my grandmother.

As time went on and I grew older, I began to understand more and more. I would ask more and more questions and get fewer and fewer answers every time. Why does Nani M live alone? Because she and Grandpa George divorced when daddy was a boy. Why is she always lying down? Because she needs her rest. When will Nani M be better? She may not be. What does Nani M have? She has ovarian cancer. Can she read with us? Not now. But sometimes she would read with us. I remember the way her voice quivered when she read to us. I remember the way she looked at us. As though she loved us more than anything. I remember she would laugh and smile as she read to us. She would smile even though she was sick. Even though she knew she wouldn’t make it, she would smile.

One day when I was around six years old, my father got a phone call. I could see the sadness in his eyes as he talked on the phone. Later that day, my family and I sat in the basement as my father told us the news. Nani M had died. I didn’t believe it. I thought she would get better. She was supposed to get better. What I remember the most about that day is that my dad did not cry. At least not in front of me. He stayed strong for us. He was the shoulder that I could lean on. I always assumed that he broke down silently later. However, I cried for hours as my father held me in his arms. I would no longer have be dragged to my grandmother’s house. But I would miss it. I would miss her.

After her death, my father took my brother and I back to her old apartment. He told us we could each have one thing to remember her by. I immediately went up to her bedside table, and took the porcelain bird that I used to play with whenever we went to her apartment. I used to pretend that it was magic, and as long as it was there, my grandmother would get better. But she didn’t, yet it was still there. So I took it home and kept it on my bedside table to remind myself of her.

As years passed, I began to realize how little I cherished my time with my Nani M. Some nights I would cry myself to sleep, hating myself for not spending enough time with her. I was selfish. And ignorant. And childish. But there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t change the past. But I could cherish her memory, and trust that she forgives me. Because I love her. And she loves me.