Annabelle.

Today is my grandmother's birthday.

I miss you, Grandma Annie.

Sometimes I still sneak over to your old hutch, in the corner of our entryway.  I open up the cupboard doors, and take a gentle, deep inhale.  Mom has lovingly left your favorite potpourri crouched in the corner of the cupboard for the past nineteen years.

It still smells just like you.   When I close my eyes and breathe it in, I can just faintly see the corners of your stunning smile in my mind.

Your birthday, this 28th of August, is perched ever-so-faintly on the edge of Summer, in the outstretched arms of Fall.

When I think of my memories of you, they look like Autumn and fog.  I feel your warmth when the pumpkin spiced candles are lit, and the smell of rain lingers on the still-heavy Summer air outside.

Some days I get frustrated, because I was so young when you died.  I don't really have many memories to hold tightly to in these moments of overwhelming sentimentality.

I remember the cookies you used to make me and Kailey and Kelsey.  I remember taking naps on your couch. I watched Dumbo on your tiny, old-fashioned television.

I remember the red coloring book and the basket of crayons in the cabinet under the TV.

I remember sitting on the floor of your empty apartment after you died.

I would go there for years after.  Mom would free me from my schoolwork, and I would rush to play outside.  Sometimes, in quiet moments, I would walk over to the little house you lived in, attached to our garage.  I would open the creaky door.  Inside, mostly empty.  A few items remained in the cupboards in your kitchen.  A table here, sometimes a leftover couch there, from when mom was re-decorating and re-arranging our own living room. 

I'd sit there, on the floor, and soak up the scent and the heaviness.  Even when I was just a little child.

One time I found a spider in your bathtub, and I was so angry that another living thing dared to invade your home and call it theirs.  I ran the water, watching it drown with a solemnity only a child can pervade.

Do you remember how when I was a tiny child, I would gather flowers for you and toddle over to your house on extremely shaky legs and reach out my grubby, chubby little hands full of weeds and dandelions for you?

You always took them.  You always put them in a vase.  You always kissed me.

You were so sick.  Your body racked with so much pain. So much cancerous poison.

You loved us all so much.

The only picture with you that I have is one of you cradling me in your weak arms when I was a very little baby.

Happy Birthday, Grandma.

If you were still alive today, things would be so different.

Sometimes I wonder how your heart would beat, if you were alive to see your family now.

There are so many different directions all of our lives have taken, just like any normal family experiences.

In some ways, I wonder if it's better that you're not around.  Selfishly, I desperately wish that you were.

It swells and expands with the most intensity around holidays, and on your birthday- and I just wish you were still here so we could honor you in person.  I wish that I was climbing into my car now, headed home from my workday, excited to sit at a full table, all of our family gathered around with candles lit and dinner simmering on the stove.  I can see you sitting next to my mother, laughing with such mirth at something my father said, reaching out to grab the hand of my Aunt Missy- arms and eyes always outstretched for my Aunt Lynn, waiting in anticipation for the impending arrival of your only son.

My sisters and my cousins smile in the light of your warmth, your glow, your angelic atmosphere.  As we each make our way to your side, for a hug. For a kiss.  For a forehead-to-forehead blessing.  A reminder of the love Jesus has for us, and the sacrifice He's made for us, alive in the love and sacrifices that you made daily in your time here on earth.

Those individuals who are fully grown and still have grandparents around that are deeply involved in their lives don't understand how truly lucky they are.

I know it's selfish to wish for your presence again on this uncertain earth, when you are so at home and at such final peace in the arms of our Savior in Heaven.  I'm sorry I wish for it constantly. 

Just know that, while they may not celebrate birthdays in Heaven anymore, we're still celebrating your birthday at home today.  We miss you.  We love you. 

Thank you for watching over our family. 

Thank you for the constant struggle and sacrifice which was the short, unfair span of your life. 

You never complained.  Never faltered.  You shot praise up to our Lord and King at the beginning and end of every day.  You created a legacy lasting long and healthy in our family. You have 4 grand-daughter namesakes, and 2 great-granddaughter namesakes as yet, and more will come, I promise.

Thank you for teaching our mothers how to set beautiful tables, and for teaching our mothers how to cook such warm, nourishing meals.  Thank you for loving our fathers into the family as your own sons.  Thank you for teaching our parents about sacrifice.

They've taught your lessons to us, in turn, and someday, when the rest of us have our own chance, those lessons will trickle down into our own homes and families as well.

I know that you're alive up there, and healthy.  Young, and beautiful.  You have all of the expanse of eternity to make breathtaking bouquets with all of the wildflowers in Heaven, and I know that brings your soul so much joy.  Just know that you have given all of us that much joy, too, by allowing us to be born and created into your family.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

I'm always missing you.

Happy Birthday.