The name came back to me then—a story my mother once told, then quickly hushed. A summer in 1947. A swimming hole. A cousin who never came home. They’d dragged the creek for three days. Found nothing. The family called it a runaway.
One of my fondest memories of my grandma is a silly one. I must have been around 5 or 6 years old, and we were playing outside on a rainy day. I remember running to her and exclaiming, "Grandma, you're wet!" She just laughed and smiled, and we spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the rain together. It was a simple moment, but it's a memory that's stuck with me to this day. My Grandmother -Grandma- you-re wet- -Final- By...
I wanted to tell her it was okay. I wanted to tell her that sometimes, you just have to stand in it. I wanted to tell her that the world feels different when you stop fighting the weather. The name came back to me then—a story
In that moment, I realized that my Grandma wasn't just any ordinary grandmother. She was a woman who could find joy in the simplest things, even when she was soaked to the bone. She had a way of turning potentially embarrassing moments into unforgettable memories. A cousin who never came home
"I know, my love. And it is wonderful."
She was. But for once, neither of us apologized.