But you don’t understand my loss.
Some grandmas grew up in a church family.
Some could turn a house into a home.
Some might have, on occasion, made a jello salad for a potluck.
Mine ran her own business and left it all behind.
Mine brought her family to this country at the end of the Vietnam War.
Mine took college classes in her second language.
Mine could beat you at chess.
My grandma lived with me for the last three and a half years.
She had advanced dementia, and it only continued to progress.
Dad doesn’t want her memory to be reduced to how she was at the end.
But that’s what I know best.
It’s what I’ve grown to love, and it’s what I miss.
I miss her wearing her stupid pink jacket when it was too hot outside.
I miss her telling my mom that she had been brushing her teeth for two whole minutes.
I miss waking up because she was sneaking around the middle of the night.
I miss her stealing the cookies that were meant for my clients.
I miss waking up because she was sneaking around the middle of the night.
I miss her stealing the cookies that were meant for my clients.
I miss seeing her rifle through the mail.
I miss having her push the shopping cart.
I miss having her push the shopping cart.
I miss seeing her box with Drakeson.
I miss hearing her laugh at slapstick comedy.
I miss braiding her hair.
I miss her recitations of Vietnamese poetry.
I miss noticing that it was beautiful outside, but only because she told me so.
I miss that every outing was a field trip.
Every outing was a field trip.
Dad remembers an elegant, classy, and determined lady.
I remember the one who made every outing a field trip.
At age 49, she got onto that boat.
At age 99, she changed her little shoes and sat patiently on her little table.
She was too busy that day to not go push the cart.
Here's the thing.
I miss hearing her laugh at slapstick comedy.
I miss braiding her hair.
I miss her recitations of Vietnamese poetry.
I miss noticing that it was beautiful outside, but only because she told me so.
I miss that every outing was a field trip.
Every outing was a field trip.
Dad remembers an elegant, classy, and determined lady.
I remember the one who made every outing a field trip.
At age 49, she got onto that boat.
At age 99, she changed her little shoes and sat patiently on her little table.
She was too busy that day to not go push the cart.
Here's the thing.
It's all the same.
For the ladies who make the jello salads don’t steal the cookies.
They don’t pack their bags for secret trips.
They don’t sneak out the back door.
They don’t win at cards.
Or put their money where their mouth is.
They hardly ever make it to 99,
They lose at chess,
And they never, ever make every outing a field trip.
For the ladies who make the jello salads don’t steal the cookies.
They don’t pack their bags for secret trips.
They don’t sneak out the back door.
They don’t win at cards.
Or put their money where their mouth is.
They hardly ever make it to 99,
They lose at chess,
And they never, ever make every outing a field trip.
I want you by my side for every field trip.
Sit with me in the car again and laugh at the traffic.
Push the cart. I promise not to walk too far ahead.
I'll help you get buckled.
I'll hold your hand in the parking lot so we don't get lost.
And together, we'll see all there is to see.
4 Generation Home
04 Mar 2023 - 06 Oct 2026
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