When I was little, I used to throw tantrums by going completely limp. Inconsolable. I’m not sure who named it (maybe I did), but we would say I was ‘broken’ again. Somewhere there is a photo of my gramma holding me, trying to ‘fix’ me.

Now that I’m 32, I know I’m strong enough not to break. That breaking won’t help to fix anything. But I will still spend some time today being quiet, immobile, and throwing a sad tantrum.

My nurse gramma died just before 4am this morning.

I got the news at about 4:30. Then I laid in bed with heartburn for a while.

I remembered watching her cook. She could cup her hands in such a way that she could measure out teaspoons and tablespoons and everything in between in her palm.

I remembered her laugh. Her smile. Gramma was always smiling, even when we (her grandchildren) made her kinda mad when we would say we were playing ‘gramma rummy’ because she was always making up new rules.

She loved card games. And she has such patience to teach all of her grandchildren how to play new games. How to play fair and even how to figure out the next best move if we needed help.

Last winter, I spent a few days at gramma and grampa’s house after they had both taken pretty rough falls. In fact, it was a miracle that gramma had survived. I’m thankful that I could spend that brief time with them.

The past year has been a tough one for my family. If you have a few good thoughts to spare, we’d be grateful to have them.