A couple of weeks ago my grandmother passed away.  She was 88 years old.  I'm not sad.  I mean, I'm sad that I didn't see her much in her final years, but I saw her as much as I could have given that she was two states away.  I loved my grandmother.  She died a long time ago.  She lived her life for my grandfather and, when he passed a little more than 20 years ago, she wanted to go with him on his journey.  I lived with my grandparents for about 3 years when my mother went through her divorce but, even after that, they were a huge part of my life.  I remember my grandfather having all of us girls, four of us at the time, get into bathing suits and into the bathtub so he could wash our hair.  He used to brush our hair and then my grandmother would braid it.  I remember their house was always so clean and there was a living room we weren't allowed to be in...  and a guest room we loved to play in.  My grandmother, like grandmothers everywhere, cooked for us.  She didn't like to cook, but the first thing she'd say when we walked into her house was, "Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat."  and then, regardless of our answer, she would make us something to eat.  She'd cook and my grandfather would get "sugar" from us.  We'd walk in the door and he'd scoop us up and rub his stubbly chin into our necks until we were squealing with delighted laughter.  Then we grew, and grew apart...  it wasn't until years after he died that I really understood how much I lost when I lost him.  Now, though, 20 years later, I completely grasp the loss of my grandmother.  I'm so glad, so lucky, that my children knew her.  That I was able to love her for so many more years.  I wish she hadn't been so sad.  I wish she hadn't isolated herself so much.  That aside, though, I'm happy for her.  She's finally able to go meet the man of her dreams.  Again.