I knew that March 1st was coming up, but I buried my head in the sand. I didn’t want to think about this day. I didn’t want to think about you.

The 1st came and went. It was a horrible day, which seems fitting, because March 1st is always a terrible day in my mind, in my memories.

I called your daughter last week and said that I wanted to go to Ventura. I have 3 weeks of vacation and I just needed to be there. You always loved Ventura and every time I go there, I feel like I can remember a little more about you. We spent every summer there, the whole family in a crowded house with costco tubs of food and candy, with deafening noise and seemingly endless bouts of laughter.

I remember it so clearly. I remember early morning walks where you warned me not to step on the tar, because it would never come off my feet. I remember scouring the shore line for sand dollars and how each year there seemed to be fewer and fewer. I remember sitting on the rocks and watching the waves crash in front of us.

Yesterday, as I sat on the same stretch of beach in front of the same jetty of rocks we used to sit on, I couldn’t help but think of you. I remember all the summers where we played blitz for candy and quarters. I remember the donuts from the donut store. I remember the patio. I remember the bunk beds you were terrified of us sleeping in. I remember how worried you when the tide carried us a little to one side or the other and how much the threat of an undertoe tormented your mind.

Your youngest daughter, your youngest grandchild and I spent our day in Ventura yesterday. Your sister came out for a little while too and I was taken aback at how much she looks like you. I guess I’d never really noticed before.

Yesterday was Evan’s first time at the beach where he could really enjoy it, and the 4 of us played together, making new memories, but painfully aware of the ones we had made in this very place years ago. We talked about you, how much we missed you and how life was different.

I thought about what you would say if you were there.

You probably would’ve worried about the temperature. You definitely would’ve worried about the quantity of sand your grandson ingested. If it makes you feel better, I tried to discourage him, but he got your headstrong stubbornness, to be sure.

But more than anything, I know that if you were there with us, you would’ve been happy. You would’ve worried and hemmed some, but you would’ve smiled and laughed and loved every moment of it. We were on our beach. We were together, a small bit of our large family. And family was always what mattered most to you.

You never got to meet your two youngest grandchildren, and the third youngest was only 3 months old when you died. But you would love them. Zachary is 8 now. He’s smart, but mischievous. He loves his baby brother in the sweetest way ever, and is really spectacularly good at taunting his sister. While he doesn’t remember you, he has pictures from those first 3 months. And I made sure that the first book I ever gave him was the one you read me whenever I slept over, Caps for Sale. He’s old enough to read it himself now.

Mary Kathryn, who is named after you and me, is a perfect mix of the two of us, which is to say that she’s a humongous hand full. She’s headstrong, stubborn, incredibly intelligent, and beautiful. She loves her baby brother with such ferocity that it’s sometimes scary. She has your passion and your sense of humor. You would love her. I think she probably would’ve ousted me as your favorite grandchild.

Evan is only 14 months old, but he is the happiest child I’ve ever known. His blue eyes are piercing and his smile could light up the world. I don’t think you ever would’ve gotten enough of him.

I don’t have the words to tell you how sad I am that I can’t remember the sound of your voice anymore. Or how I can’t quite remember the way your hot dish tasted. Or that I never said goodbye to you. But mostly, I’m sad that it’s been 8 years since I last heard you laugh. Since I hugged you. Since you saw your family, pulled us together and reminded us to love one another. It’s been 8 years since the doctor said it was cancer, a cancer you never got the chance to fight. It’s been 8 years now since you died. It used to feel like yesterday, but lately, it seems like forever.

Grandma, I know that you are at peace, in a place without cancer, without fear, without pain. I just hope that you know that you are as loved today as you were 8 years ago. And this family that you brought together, that you built, that you anchored, misses you in a way that cannot be written in words.

We miss you in a way that can only be felt in the deepest parts of our hearts, the part that you cultivated, that you nurtured.

The part where we keep our memories of you.

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