I miss you. I miss walking into your house and smelling cookies fresh out of the oven because you remembered that I was coming and knew that I loved the kind with oatmeal and raisins. I miss the big wet kisses that I hated so much and the way you smelled even though I didn't like it. I miss calling you just to say hi and chatting about this and that. And trying to teach you how to use email. I miss driving two hours just to spend the weekend with you to keep you company all alone in that big house and how you would wait by the door all day long until I arrived. And mowing the lawn while you watched from the porch. I miss your inputs into conversations even if they were often rude, poorly timed, and inappropriate. I miss the grandma cards you sent for every special occasion. I saved all of them so that when I miss you too much, I can look at them and remember you.
I miss you like I should have missed grandpa when he died, even though I was too young to understand what happened. I miss you like anyone misses a relative who has passed away. But you didn't die. Even though I can still see you and talk to you I miss you. You don't see me or talk to me; you don't miss me. You rarely know who I am. I miss your memory.
Sometimes, because I miss you so much, I get mad. Mad because you didn't understand when I said goodbye. I get mad because you were taken from me and I don't like loosing control. I get mad when I call you and you don't recognize my voice, or remember who I am, or what I am doing, or where I am, or why I am calling you, goodbye, click, beeeeeeeeeeep, if you'd like to make a call please hang up and dial again. I get so mad because I miss you so much and you are still right in front of me.
I get mad Grandma but not at you, not because you left. I get mad because I left. I get mad at myself because I ran away and left you alone to captain your sinking ship to the bitter, lonely, end.