Today is the first day.

I've been writing my whole life.  But today is the first day I'm going to publish these thoughts.  Some of you may remember a little notebook with poetry on half the pages, and an invitation to leave your comments on the adjacent pages.  I look at those comments with amusement and bewilderment.  Did I really share those early musings with you?  Did you really take the time to read them?

It's been years since I shared my writing on a wide scale.  Since then, the pages have grown exponentially with the audience shrinking at an equal, though inverse rate.

So if she's going to speak, she better speak now.

I'm at work and I'm thinking about my grandma.

Grandma Helen is changing every day.  She's so tiny now.  I don't know how to talk to her as well as I used to.  And lately I find myself stumbling across more and more reminders that I need to stop letting that stop me.  This woman, this lynchpin of the family, will not be with us forever.  But she has been with me every day of my life thus far.

She loves Monet.  And when she could still see, she loved to paint her own flowers.  Although I rarely painted with her, my sister was more up to that task, I remember sitting with her on the deck at our old family cabin while she painted and I wrote.  She may have been the first person I shared my poetry with.  I know she was the one to encourage me to start a poetry journal.  She's been the one constantly reminding me of the power my words could have ever since.

I didn't inherit her artistic skills, but I do share her love of Monet.  So when I moved to Paris to study for the Fall semester of 2002, I took it upon myself to absorb the impressionist era in a way that she would never be able to.  When I wandered the train station of Musee D'Orsay, I carried her with me in my heart.  When I drug my pajama-assed self to Monet's house one lazy Sunday morning, I asked my friend to take a picture of my haggard self in the doorway for my Grandma.  And the print I purchased was naturally for her.

When I got back from traveling Europe the day before Christmas, I went straight to my Grandma's side to begin recounting my adventures.  Christmas morning I gave her that print of the lily pond that she loved best.  It hung in her living room hall from that moment on.

It's probably my favorite gift I've ever given my grandma.  Although I'm sure she'd say the medals from swim meets were hers.  I loved walking into the house and seeing that common interest adorning her antique house.  I was grateful to know that I was able to carry out the adventure that she was never able to have.

When Grandma's husband of the better part of a century died, the reality didn't really set in until the time came to start cleaning out their house.  The house that had held all of my Christmas mornings, and all of my father's.  The house that had the grandchildren picture wall, the graduation picture wall, and the wedding photo wall that I now realized I would never join.  Grandpa is gone, and now Grandma sleeps across the pasture in her daughter's den.

The Monet needed to be adopted.

Grandma encouraged everyone in the family to take what they wanted.  I resisted.  I waited several visits before I actually put on the lens of a pillager in that old house.  The Monet was waiting patiently for me when I gingerly removed it from it's rightful home.  Grandma insisted I take it.  But what I wanted most was for it to be with her.  Removing it and relocating it to Washington meant only one thing, that "Grandma's house" was no longer hers.

The house still stands, it still houses the Christmas socks and the relatives that fill it up for that crazy weekend.  But it no longer houses my grandma at sunrise in her rocking chair gazing out contentedly on Mt. Emily.  It no longer houses her ham noodle soup or the mac and cheese she would make just for me. And so it no longer houses my heart...or her art.

It's easy to push these realizations down.  She's still here with us.  I still get cards from her, the only hand written mail I'm likely to receive all year.  She's still sitting quietly somewhere in the madness of the family gatherings.  So I can continue to act as if she'll always be there.

But I received two reality checks this month.

1. My younger cousin is engaged.  He is ready, and she is amazing and I'm happy for them both.  But the strangest thing happened when I found out.  I cried!  And I cried even harder when I saw the pictures of them telling Grandma of the good news.  The best I can explain it is this way; I'm the first one in the family to not get married in chronological order.  Which doesn't really matter at all.  And I'm completely happy where I'm at.  But the thought of not having my grandma there the day I do say "I do" came crashing down on me following the news.  Next I imagined the children I might someday raise that will not know her.  It's the only regret I have for taking my time growing up.  Silly I know.  But being a 29 year old kid hasn't really affected me negatively in any other respect.

2. I rescued the Monet from storage last weekend.  We hung the print last night.  The nails were too high and the wall too small.  So when we took it back down to rearrange I got the chance to see the sticky note that Grandma had affixed to the back of it.  She noted the day it was hung.  The grand daughter who brought it to her.  And several other adorable factoids that she had the foresight to record for my sake in the future.

My first reaction was admiration.  Grandma was already planning on handing down her belongings and wanted to make sure the meaning of her belongings was not lost....and it wasn't.  But wait!  There was another note!  In a plastic case at the top corner of the frame was a folded note.  This note included similar facts but also a secret message to her second granddaughter reminding her how special she is.  Yup, that's the kind of grandma I have.

My eyes filled with tears as I read the note to Chris.  He just smiled and said "You are very special to her."

This I've always known.

I take a sigh of relief reminding myself:  She's still here, she's still around.  I knew in that moment how awful it will be the day that I can't say that.  The future moment when I'm reminded how wonderful she was.  The glimpse of the future that I needed to make sure I embrace the present.

This note also reminded me how much I share with this wonderful woman.  Across our tiny little living room hangs a frame that I folded a note to years ago.  It's a poem.  I think she'd approve.