Dear Lucy,
I can't see you today. I won't be greeted by you at the front door with your sentimental, outstretched, gentle arms. However, in my vivid dreams I can smell the scent of your rose petal lotion, feel the smoothness of your perfectly misshapen hands that have been sweetly, tortured by Rheumatoid and hear the sound of your silly, but feisty Irish voice amidst all the hustle and bustle as we all gather to celebrate your birthday.
The dining room table would be set for eight. A perfectly, pressed dining cloth would be outstretched to embrace the beauty of the white china awaiting to be filled with Grandpa's culinary delights. You would sit to the left of Grandpa and I to his right. Your small, delicate frame would be aided by two pillows and Grandpa, without asking, would push you closer to the table. We would all watch as you asked for the smallest portion but then pick off his plate--thinking no one ever noticed. Our prayers would feel answered as we all felt blessed to have another year go by with you.
And finally, after we cleared the table and repeating at least seven times that you will remain seated as we loaded the dishwasher, we would bring your cake out, sing Happy Birthday out of tune and enjoy the delicacy of a nice Sara Lee marble cake-----with several Mmmmms and Ohhhhs from you.
This is exactly how perfect it would be.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you or laugh at a particular moment we had together. I still feel you and hear you in the midst of all chaos. I awake some mornings and smile because your bright face and open arms filled my dreams.
I miss you.
You may not be celebrating 84 exactly up in heaven, but I bet my life that Grandpa took you dancing---with no pain---only grace and love.
Love,
Bethie
I can't see you today. I won't be greeted by you at the front door with your sentimental, outstretched, gentle arms. However, in my vivid dreams I can smell the scent of your rose petal lotion, feel the smoothness of your perfectly misshapen hands that have been sweetly, tortured by Rheumatoid and hear the sound of your silly, but feisty Irish voice amidst all the hustle and bustle as we all gather to celebrate your birthday.
The dining room table would be set for eight. A perfectly, pressed dining cloth would be outstretched to embrace the beauty of the white china awaiting to be filled with Grandpa's culinary delights. You would sit to the left of Grandpa and I to his right. Your small, delicate frame would be aided by two pillows and Grandpa, without asking, would push you closer to the table. We would all watch as you asked for the smallest portion but then pick off his plate--thinking no one ever noticed. Our prayers would feel answered as we all felt blessed to have another year go by with you.
And finally, after we cleared the table and repeating at least seven times that you will remain seated as we loaded the dishwasher, we would bring your cake out, sing Happy Birthday out of tune and enjoy the delicacy of a nice Sara Lee marble cake-----with several Mmmmms and Ohhhhs from you.
This is exactly how perfect it would be.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you or laugh at a particular moment we had together. I still feel you and hear you in the midst of all chaos. I awake some mornings and smile because your bright face and open arms filled my dreams.
I miss you.
You may not be celebrating 84 exactly up in heaven, but I bet my life that Grandpa took you dancing---with no pain---only grace and love.
Love,
Bethie