Today is one of those days. I thought baking apples for my family would bring me joy. The joy I used to get from eating yours. But I can’t seem to find your exact recipe, and even still…I don’t want to make them. I want you to make them for me. And I want to sit with you, my dear, sweet grandmother, at your kitchen table and take it all in.
I’m standing at my sink, peeling apples as I wipe tears away. I wonder how yours turned out so perfectly. Mine are mutilated and misshapen. But that is how everything you did seemed—perfect.
Some days, I hold continual conversations with you. I have so many questions. I’m angry I didn’t think to ask. I wish someone could have warned me of all the things I’d wonder after you’re gone.
Did your heart burst every fall when the leaves turned and the weather was just so? I know it did, but I want to hear all about it. What were your forties like? What worries kept you up at night?
I walk by the fridge and catch a glimpse of you. So sweet. So beautiful. I hear your voice in my head. I replay it often, over and over. I’m thankful I can still hear it. I fear a day will come when it’s gone.
The inflection. The excitement. The word choice. Oh, how I loved your words! Sometimes I hear you in my own. When my inner, old lady surfaces—”shucks” and “dern” roll off my tongue, and I think of you.
Mostly, you make me smile. You were easy to love. But sometimes your memory brings an ache right to my chest, making my eyes well and my breath pause. On a random Thursday, I see you in a stranger with a thin, tall frame or long, crooked fingers, and I fight the tears. I miss you.
You’d be so proud of us. Just as you were over the moon when your sons took over the farm, now your grandson has stepped up to fill the very large shoes of the men before him. He’s a good husband, a good man, and he’s become the best girl dad! All of your granddaughters have beautiful families, and we balance our many roles in ways I’m certain you’d be more than thrilled to see. You’d adore your 10 great-grandchildren.
Of course, we’ve had trials too. I’m only relieved you don’t have to watch one of us battle breast cancer this year. She’s going to be okay, but we all feel so helpless.
I had you for over three decades and deem myself fortunate. And now that you’re gone, I’m grateful for the ways you’ve remained with us.
Sometimes I see you in the mirror. Your nose. At least three of us have it.
The color pink. I’ve always loved it too. And strawberries. I can’t not think of you.
When I have news to share, I remind myself I already know what your reaction would be.
When I wonder how you used to make your divine baked apples, I’ll find you in your recipe. But if I can’t find THE recipe, I’ll find comfort in the text to my cousin, who might just remember the part I’m forgetting.
And when I’m feeling insignificant over life’s mundane, I’ll remember the look—the one of sheer enamoration like only you would give that said, You are the most precious thing to me. I couldn’t be prouder. And I’m elated to see you. All in one expression.
I’ll forever strive to see more of you in myself; to make everyone around me feel loved and treasured; to be patient and love like Jesus.
Thank you for loving me like that. A love so special, it aches. Even nine years later.
by Vicki Bahr 
