My mother died young, she was 63 years old. She was an amazing Grandmother. The eldest was in grade eight when she died, just before her grade eight graduation (my dad, also an amazing Grandfather passed away just before the eldest graduated from grade 12). Middle child was in grade five and the teenage boy was in grade three when my mom died.
My husband has always worked shift work, so when the kids were young my mom pitched in and helped me. She babysat on a moments notice, drove kids to school when I worked, had a stash of toys and videos at her house just for her grandchildren. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for them.
In the summer when the kids all played soccer, she regularly drove the teenage boy to his soccer practice since I was with middle child who always had a game that same evening. My mom always took the same route to soccer and my son had this route memorized. Some time after my mother passed away I would take the soccer route, and the teenage boy would always say, this is the way grandma took me to soccer, he repeated this for a number of years. Then it stopped. Grandma had slipped from his mind. He no longer remembered the soccer route. I try to bring those memories back to him, but they are gone. Gone like my mom, his grandmother.
Time heals for the young, because memories fade. As I type this, the tears roll down my face, I miss my mom, their grandmother. (As I turned to wipe my tears, I see the calendar, it will be her birthday in exactly one month).