A year ago today my grandma died.
The year has absolutely flown by. Whenever I used to hear people say that they missed someone every day, I didn't understand how they could miss someone but get on with their lives.
I get it now.
I miss her so much. Not a day goes by when I do not think of her.
Initially I was upset and angry. I would burst into tears when I listened to music. Latterly I have been less angry and more accepting.
Strangely I have learnt more about her over the past year. I am doing her job and living in her house surrounded by her things. I now moan about the same things she complained about. Possibly I should have listened to her more and helped to find solutions.
I have a greater idea of the sheer amount of work that she did in a day. Running a bed and breakfast and managing a huge garden, along with cooking dinner and getting time to read books. She simply was amazing. I cannot manage half of the things she did.
I have done my very best to follow in her footsteps. To grow courgettes, peas, cauliflowers, beetroot, carrots, you name it, I've planted it in the garden. Some of it has grown, some has faltered and some had simply failed. The weeds have taken over in places, growing faster than we could stop them and spreading everywhere.
I miss her.
I don't miss the ill grandma, the one who needed so much help in her final weeks. The one who relied on people for the first time in her life.
I miss the happy grandma. The one we used to visit most weekends. The one who took the piss out of my husband and almost always won arguments. The grandma who was always right. I miss her energy. Her enthusiasm. Her sense of humour. Her competitiveness.
I miss it all.
I wish she was still here. That cancer hadn't been the end of her.
She would love to see my children growing up. She would be so proud of my son's sporting achievements, and that his reading excelled. She would love hearing of my daughter's latest escapades, looking forward to her starting school.
She would be able to guide me.
There have been countless times that I have walked round the kitchen trying to find where grandma would have put something, or working out how she would have done things.
There is a drawer in the kitchen which has her scarves in it. It still smells of her and for now that drawer is staying exactly as it is.
