My grandmother had only one great love — as she used to say:
“I loved my mother, my husband, my children, my grandchildren… but I never loved anyone the way I loved your mom.”
After my mother passed away, I started calling Grandma Mommy.
I missed her — and I think she missed it too.
I’m sure my mother wouldn’t have minded.
We were close. Grandma had that witty, no-nonsense charm of a woman who grew up in the countryside.
I laughed with her in ways I didn’t laugh with anyone else.
When I was in college, I’d rush to her house after classes to eat.
Every time, the same meal: fried potatoes with a fresh cucumber, always sliced into four.
I’ve fried mountains of potatoes since then, cut hundreds of cucumbers, but nothing ever tasted like Grandma’s cooking.
We’d go to the mall together — I’d buy her shirts, handbags, and blouses from Mango.
“You’re making me too fashionable, Mommy,” she’d say. “I’m an old woman.”
But then she’d proudly show them off to her neighbors, who had never heard of fast fashion, sustainable cotton, or organic fabrics.
I loved doing with her the things I imagined I would have done with my mother.
She always praised me — said I was a good driver, a strong woman, beautiful and smart.
And she always had something extra to add.
Grandma didn’t get her ears pierced until she was over seventy.
She was so proud! She had it done at the mall, with one of those piercing guns.
At last, she was a stylish lady — tiny gold hoops glimmering in her ears, proud as could be.
And every time she got the chance, being a woman of faith, she’d remind me:
“You might be afraid to see me when I’m gone, Mommy. But don’t be.
When you come to my funeral, look and make sure I have my earrings on.
Don’t let them bury me without them — I don’t want to be deaf in the next world.”
I’d laugh and tell her not to talk about death, that it was still a long way off.
But she’d always bring up those two little golden hoops that were never to leave her ears.
Grandma was sick for six long, difficult years.
Time gained for me — but suffering for her.
Sometimes I wished she’d find peace, to be reunited with her greatest love — my mom.
And after those six years, at 101 years and 8 months, Grandma closed her eyes — only to open them in another world.
I cried a lot.
But I knew how deeply she believed in God.
It was impossible to think she wasn’t with Him now.
And with my mother.
I did something she never thought I’d be able to do — because of my anxiety: I saw her after she died.
I touched her, kissed her, held the hands that had comforted me all my life.
She was lying in my aunt’s living room, in the casket, placed on the table.
It was just me, my father, and my aunt.
Who else was left for Grandma to know — a woman who had lived over a century, across two centuries?
My aunt was in another room with Dad, and I stayed there alone with Grandma.
I looked at her, stroked her cheeks — and then I noticed: she wasn’t wearing her earrings.
She had been so frail that she’d often tug at them, so my aunt had taken them off.
I jumped up and asked for the earrings.
Back in the room, I set them on the table and tried to put the first one in.
But they were hoops — they just wouldn’t go through.
I kept trying, whispering softly,
“It’s okay if it hurts, Mommy… just wear your earrings.”
Then I had an idea.
I took off my own earrings, simple studs with posts and screws — easier to fit.
I placed the first one in, and somehow Grandma’s face seemed brighter.
When I tried to put in the second one, my hands trembled.
I dropped it — right into the casket, beside her.
I couldn’t reach it, so I climbed up on the table, leaned over the casket, over Grandma herself, and fished around until I found it.
Just then, my dad came in — sent by my aunt to check if I was okay.
He stopped in the doorway and called out,
“She didn’t faint — she’s climbed right on top of Grandma!”
I laughed.
And in my heart, I felt like Grandma was laughing too.
Especially once she had both earrings back.
I miss her —
her simplicity, her steady faith that God knows better than we ever could why things happen as they do.
I miss laughing from the heart.
I miss feeling like a child.
And I miss having the best possible stand-in
for a mother who can never be replaced.