As I write this, you are just two years old. I know being two feels grown to you. but I am going to ask your Mom to keep this letter until you are a little older. I trust she will know when you are ready.
You came to us when you were just two days old. Your Mom brought you to visit on your way home from the hospital. My Mom (“Grama” to you) welcomed you with a big smile.
Actually, she welcomed everyone with a big smile. But you .. you were different. You were new and fresh and brimming with life. The two of you loved one another from that very first moment.
How your Grama loved to watch you explore the world. You were a busy little creature, looking and smelling and tasting and, at the drop of a hat, napping.
Before long, you were crawling, finding all sorts of treasures that were just within reach. Things we adults hardly noticed were items of great curiosity to you. You liked to show your “treasures” to your Grama.
When you began to eat solid food, you found the items on Grama’s plate much more desirable than the baby fare you were given.
Then, oh my, you began to walk. At first you would wobble and fall, then revert to crawling since it was still the fastest way to travel.
But, before long you were running and turning. You often played with your green ball. When it got stuck under the furniture, you would say “uh-oh” and then wait for an adult to retrieve it. Your Grama watched with great delight.
You became jealous of anyone who seemed to compete for Grama’s attention. You would run and position yourself next to her recliner, warding off all comers.
You often used Grama’s walker, barely reaching the handles as you walked. Or you would sit proudly on the seat.
Whenever you had a little sweet, you shared it with Grama. One day, failing to find any cookies, you accepted a bowl of Trix. Before getting up on the walker seat with your treat, you made sure Grama had first pick.
Then, as Grama entered into her final days, you presented her with a peanut M&M. She no longer could eat, but she did her very best, with chocolate running down her chin.
Then, on the night she died, you slept on the bed next to hers. When you gave her a big kiss, she looked at you and mouthed “I love you.” Those were her last words.
So always remember that you gave much joy and love to your Grama in her final years. I often think she lived as long as she did so that she could be loved by a little one like you.
I know that in the weeks following Grama’s death, you thought you saw her. Actually, it would not be unusual for you to see people or hear voices that remind you of her. For her spirit is still alive and, like an angel, is watching over you, her special friend.
So please, my little Sepiuta, keep Grama’s memory alive in your heart. Always remember the little woman with the big smile. Your Grama.
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