She was born in 1916 and I was born in 1992. I was 6 when I first met her in my neighborhood and loved to come over. Her husband died the year before I met her and she told me so many stories that I felt like I knew him. Her life was just as interesting and I adored hearing the things she did during her best years.
We’d play cards, listen to the radio, tell jokes, bake (and eat plenty of cookie dough). She wasn’t like a grandmother to me, she was just a really good friend. I don’t believe there are any pictures of us, but if there were then they have been lost in time.
I moved houses, but stayed in the same town and could visit her at least once per week by riding my bike over. We moved a little further a few years later and the visits were a couple times per month with a few calls in between.
I was 14 when a stranger called my house and asked for me. I never talked on the phone, so my mother was suspicious who it was. Once she asked, the woman on the phone introduced herself as the woman’s grand-daughter. She was calling because her grandmother had passed and she wanted to let me know.
I got a hug and then the subject never came up again. I missed my friend and people around me didn’t think it mattered. I never knew why. Her family didn’t even contact me for the service or anything. It hurt.
I think about her every few months and everything comes flooding back. She gave me high expectations for a friend and I admit I’ve compared possible friends against her several times. I’m hoping that when travel restrictions are lifted, I can go to her grave. She buried next to her husband and love of her life. I can’t wait to meet him.