A new year brings back old memories… Walking to grandma’s house that isn’t her home because it isn’t by the river. Walking to her house, laughing with the other kids. John has a crush on me. I have a crush on Evan. Evan has a crush on Casey. Casey is gone now. I think of her often. Grandma is forever cemented at that home on the river in those worn boots holding a line of fish at her chest with pride. I slept in the room with the deer head mounted over the bed…even though it scared me. The place smelled of banana cake and titanium white paint on a palette as she painted those trees a million different times. I marveled at each canvas as a new scene of the same trees always emerged. Cascading towers of yarn and crochet hooks, a half done afghan engulfing her lap. A cat is hidden in there somewhere. Grandpa watches M*A*S*H while Grandma bakes potatoes. She walks sideways through the salon with her arm hanging limp at her waist. A stroke claimed the right side of her body. Cancer claimed her left breast. A new house in town, closer to the doctors, even though her home is on the river. Afternoons spent on her stationary bike in the basement as Bob Ross painted happy little trees just for us. She fed me fresh pears and home grown tomatoes as I drank in the stories of her life; a mother dying in child birth, a father leaving his daughter to people better suited for raising a child. Aunt Hazel and Uncle Alec’s house was always full. Rushing to the court house to marry before he had to ship out, lying about their age. They were old enough, they told the clerk. But really they were young enough. Just young enough to fall hastily in love. He couldn’t come home for her senior prom but sent flowers in his place. A smile filled pause over peach preserves. She wore those six roses on her breast like a badge of honor. “Men know nothing of flowers except that women deserve them to be sent,” she laughed. One day she couldn’t remember to thread the bobbin on her sewing machine though she had sewn since she had breathed. A frantic phone call saying there were strangers in her house. I rushed to the door to find Grandma alone with the presence of a disease we could not possibly begin to understand. Alzheimer’s. And so began the long goodbye. She fought it the best she could. Grandma chasing ghosts down the hallway, banging pots and pans. “Get out of my house!” She fought it the best she could. We moved her to the nursing home and she was afraid no one liked her. Everyone loved her. I told her they were tired of her always winning at bingo. And she couldn’t remember the homemade banana nut cakes for our birthdays, but I could. I became my mother. My mother became Jane. We never corrected her. Grandpa visits like clockwork every day. She still watches her races and I.U. basketball games. She falls more often. Words are lost. But her love is still there as she eats her ice cream sundae as if no time has passed at all. Mom calls. Grandma is sick. Hospice has a bed. Grandma sleeps. Family is brought together again. A new year, but old memories. We laugh and talk and eat and for a brief moment we feel like it’s Christmas before we all drifted apart. Her body is weak, but her heart is strong. The doctor’s are amazed she’s lasted this long. I’m not. She’s always been a fighter. She fought it the best she could. A midnight phone call. She finally let go. It’s a bittersweet departure from this earth. Bitter because we are sad. Sweet because finally, Grandma is at peace. The long goodbye is over. | 
