Oh, Okay Gram.

I always knew I had a unique Grandma.
I wanted to be like her growing up; I still do.

She was strong and smart; had the confidence to wear a pink tutu and leotard on a stage in front of a hundred people when she was sixty-five years old.

Her love for my Grandpa never wavered, he was her other half. We used to sit and tell stories about him after he died, hers always ending with “I just miss him so much”.

She had the most ridiculous laugh I've ever seen. It wasn't a laugh humans could hear, maybe her beloved dogs could, but we all just watched it happen; Gram turning into a ball of chuckles tears escaping from under her teal trifocals.

She didn't bake cookies, instead she made bread and ox tail stew.

She tap danced, had a masters degree, was a magical piano player, went hunting with my Grandpa, sat a lawn chair in the river because she was always hot and loved to fish.

Her feet were long, thin and always hurt; her garden was proof that both her thumbs were green.

I'd give anything to own another one of the sweaters she used to knit for us as children, especially the brown one I used to loathe.

She didn't say “I love you”, instead she said “Oh, Okay” in a drawn out way that sounded more like “OOOOhKhaaaay”. Except in the last year or so. As disease started to steal her away more and more rapidly, she started to tell me she loved me. Slowly, each word meaning so much to her.
“ I Love You Too”.
It almost sounded like a song in her lovely deep voice.