My grandmother's birthday is on May 1, and ever since she passed away a few years ago, my family has a sort of ritual around this time of year. We gather at the same restaurant, one that Nana loved, have lunch, and then go to visit her gravesite.
As we were eating, my father stopped and said, "Well, Nana sent me a message yesterday. I was playing the numbers, and 19 and 14 came up--the year that she was born."
I grinned. "I received a message yesterday, too," I said. "Corb and I spent the day cleaning, and around two, I was in the bedroom, and Corb was in the kitchen, and I heard a crash in the living room. I ran in, and the photo of Nana that I have on the bookshelf had fallen to the ground. I picked it up, and told her that we'd be seeing her today."
Which we did, of course. It was a rainy and cold afternoon, so we didn't stay long.
As we were leaving her gravesite, I said, "I love you," while the kids were chatting away, and could feel a heavy sense of sadness in my chest. My words started to crumble, so I looked down and turned the car on.
So many memories. Every night, growing up, I would go downstairs and have toast and tea, while she would knit away. I still miss those nights.
I like the fact that she's still sending me messages.