Fifteen years ago today, my grandma died. I had just moved to New Mexico and started teaching. At the time, I was twenty five and getting my bearings in a new place when she became ill with terminal cancer. Being so far away during her final days was excruciating. Not being able to be with her, to sit beside her and hold her hand as she was dying, was almost physically unbearable as grief can be. She was one of the most important people in my world, and in so many ways, she had been another mother to me. I was the oldest of her four grandchildren, and we were all close. She called me Katrina. To all of us, she was simply Grandma.

My grandparents lived in a little house in the woods in southern Wisconsin. It was nestled into a hillside beneath towering trees, a cozy, hobbitlike place with the rustic charm of a barn. The woods were full of moss and mushrooms, and vines so thick and long we could swing from them like Tarzan. Hickory nuts covered the ground, and as they lay there, gave off a distinctive earthy smell that I can still remember so vividly. There was almost always a fire burning in the fireplace.

My grandma had the patience of a saint. She let me poke around in absolutely everything, from the pantry and holiday decorations to her stationery, shoes, lipstick, and a wonderfully gaudy collection of costume jewelry from the 60s and 70s. Her basement was full of craft materials and art supplies, all of which I had unfettered access to. I could spend hours rummaging through her possessions, making things, sliding into sweaters that smelled like moth balls, and getting lost in my own little world.

I even took on the enormous task of sorting, organizing, and researching old family photographs and objects, some dating all the way back to the 1800s. Rather than shooing me away or telling me not to touch things, she gave me the freedom to explore. Looking back, I realize what an extraordinary amount of patience that must have required, and how much it meant to be trusted with those precious artifacts of her own family history.

My grandma had a way of making ordinary things feel special. She loved a holiday, an occasion, any excuse to gather everyone together. Holidays at Grandma and Grandpa's house were marathon events that would start early in the morning and stretch long past bedtime. Elaborate decorations hung from the ceilings and covered the tabletops. The table was beautifully set, and there was always so much food. My grandparents would spend hours preparing meals, bustling around the kitchen while the grandkids played outside or downstairs. And the sweets… There were dozens of them out on proud display. In the days leading up to Christmas, we'd spend hours baking cookies together, and when the holiday finally arrived, I'd gorge myself on them. They were my favorite. There was also a different flavor of Jell-O for practically every holiday, which still makes me laugh. When we'd come over to visit, a jar of Oreo cookies sat on the counter at the ready, and root beer floats were right behind.

On an ordinary evening, we'd eat dinner at the kitchen table or on TV trays while watching my grandparents' favorite old shows. Even those quiet, unremarkable evenings felt special. There was something about being in their home, the familiar routines, the little comforts, and the feeling that there was nowhere else I needed to be. My grandma loved making things beautiful, especially when she could share them with the people she loved. She put so much thought and care into the little details, but it was her love that made being there feel so wonderful. She was also notorious for sneaking money into our pockets.

"Grandma, no!"

"Shhhh!"

And that was that. There was absolutely no arguing with her. She was generous in ways both big and small.

My grandma grew up poor in Milwaukee, raised by a single mother and, in part, her grandparents. She didn't have an easy childhood. School was difficult for her, but she worked hard and eventually earned her nursing degree. That's how she met my grandpa. He had returned from the Korean War on an aircraft carrier with polio, and she was the nurse caring for him during his recovery. Somewhere along the way, they fell in love. My grandpa was a complicated man. He could be difficult and quick-tempered. We often called him "Grump-a." But he absolutely adored my grandma, and he wasn't shy about showering her with sweetness. He knew how lucky he was.

In the years since her death I often wish I'd asked her more questions about growing up in Milwaukee, about becoming a nurse, about falling in love, and raising a family. I knew her so completely as my grandma that it rarely occurred to me how much of her life had happened before I existed. It's something I think about more now, how we know the people we love through the roles they play in our own lives, and how much of them remains a mystery. Even in our closest relationships, there are whole parts of another person's life and inner world we may never fully know. Perhaps that's part of what makes our time together so precious, the opportunity to keep discovering one another, knowing there will always be more to learn.

My grandma lived with rheumatoid arthritis for much of her life. By the time I was old enough to remember, her fingers were crooked and her spine had curved dramatically. She endured surgeries, medications, and years of chronic pain. She moved slowly, scuttling along whenever we went somewhere together, until eventually even short outings exhausted her. I can only imagine how difficult some of those years must have been.

When I think of her, I don't immediately think of her illness. I think of her laugh, her twinkling eyes, her quick wit, the mischievous little smile she'd get when she was up to something. She could be wonderfully funny, and there was a sweetness about her that never felt put on. More than anything, I remember her genuine love and curiosity about people.

She asked questions. She listened. She remembered things. She wasn't particularly interested in telling people how to live their lives or convincing them to see the world her way. She just seemed to enjoy people for who they were, and people loved being around her. She made people feel comfortable being themselves, celebrated their little victories, took an interest in their stories, and made them feel important.

I certainly felt that way with her. There was something so comforting about being loved by someone who didn't seem to need you to be any different than you were. To be completely seen and utterly loved. I miss that, and I miss her in deeper ways now than I did fifteen years ago.

When she died, I was just beginning my adult life. She never got to meet my children. How much she would have loved them! How delighted she'd be by their personalities, their stories, their little quirks. I can imagine her listening to them with that same genuine curiosity, laughing at their antics, and sneaking them sweets or a little money when I wasn't looking. She'd be their favorite, of course. I wish they could have known her, experienced the warmth of her home, sat around her table, and known what it felt like to be loved by Grandma.

She'd get such a kick out of my little place in the mountains. "Get such a kick out of" was one of her favorite expressions, and I can practically hear her saying it. The dogs, the goats, the kids, the general chaos of it all. "Oh, Katrina!" with that laugh of hers. I can picture her here so clearly, watching me try to keep an enormous, overly enthusiastic Great Pyrenees from bowling her over, or laughing at the goats getting into something they shouldn't.

I'd love to show her my studio, make her the most beautiful jewelry, and share the things I've created with my hands. Maybe she'd recognize a bit of that little girl who spent hours rummaging through her craft supplies and costume jewelry. Mostly, I'd just love to sit and talk and be with her.

My life hasn't unfolded quite the way I imagined it would when I was twenty-five. There have been so many wonderful moments and some incredibly difficult seasons, and so I try to tell her in my prayers. I don't think she's particularly concerned about whether I've done everything right. I know if she were here she'd ask questions, she'd listen, and she'd probably find something to celebrate, even in the messier parts.

I wish I could sit across from her now, as the woman I've become, and still be her Katrina. When I was a little girl, I loved her because she was my grandma, because she made every moment magical, slipped money into my pockets, and made me feel special.

Now, I think about the woman she was. A young girl growing up with very little, a woman who worked hard and was proud to become a nurse, and a wife and mother who raised two children and lived with extraordinary physical pain. Someone who surely had her own frustrations, disappointments, hopes, and dreams that I never knew. Through all of that, she managed to remain warm, funny, curious, and remarkably openhearted.

To me, of course, she was perfect. But I find myself admiring qualities in her now that I took for granted when I was young. Her patience, her generosity, her ability to find joy in other people without needing to be the center of attention.

Those qualities mean a lot to me now, especially as a mother and teacher. I think about the memories my children will have of our family life someday, and hope they'll remember being free to be curious, to explore who they were, and to know they were loved through all of it. I hope some of what she gave me has found its way into the life I'm making for them.

Fifteen years is a long time to be without someone. I've lived through whole chapters of my life since she passed. Yet, I can still hear her laugh, picture her smile, and remember the smell of the woods around her sweet house.

I love you, Grandma.

With all my HS & L, Katrina