I was the one you would take to the garden and show all of your crops to. I was the one you would pick flowers with everyday even if they were the same flowers each time. I was the one you would play house with just to keep me busy. I was the one you would sneak a cookie for if I was behaving. I was the one you would let put on your high heel shoes and run around the house in, as they clonked on the floors. I was the little blonde who you chased around in the yard. I was the one you taught how to live each day as if God told you it was your very last one.

Grandma, I was the one.

As time grew on, so did you. You are now 100 years old and still have the same humble heart. Your sweet smile has not changed. Your lively little jokes still make you laugh. Your love for wracking leaves and picking the flowers have continued to be your daily habit. Your kind eyes have remained to sparkle. But one thing that has slowly faded away within time is the small memory of me. For when we get older, God has a way of allowing only a few memories to stay, but Grandma, I was not one.

You often question who I am or where I'm from. With a blank stare of trying to figure out who the stranger at the door may be. Grandma, I am your great granddaughter, I am still me.

Now, you may not remember the times we shared, or the life that you lived. But God also has a way of taking a situation that we see as sad and transforming it into a blessing. For I remember the times we shared and the life that you have lived. It is what drives me to be the best that I can be.

You quote many sweet poems that I hold dear to my heart, such as Trees by Joyce Kilmer.

"I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest, against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear, a nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree."

Or even the simple poem by Mr. James T. Callow known as "When I am old and cannot see, put on your specks and think of me." That is a reminder that we both are growing older together. But one that remains fresh on my mind has a beautiful lesson that I compare to your life. It is called "Home" by Edgar Albert Guest.

Though it may sound overwhelming at first, you can still quote it verse by verse.

"It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home. A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam. Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind, an’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind. It don’t make any difference how rich ye get t’ be, How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king. Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything. Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it; Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then. Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men; And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part. With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart: The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore, Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door. Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh. An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh; An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come, An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified; An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories. O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these. Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play, An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day; Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year. Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear. Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run. The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun; Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome: It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home."

Grandma, do you remember me like I remember you?