Thirty-one years ago today, my Nana died. I was in the 7th grade. I remember her with nothing but love.
Nana lived just one town over from us, an easy drive which we made frequently. She had a little blue house that was never completely updated from the part time camp it was originally. I was only 12 years old when Nana died, but I remember her.
Nana made bread and the smell of it when you walked into her house was almost as good as the taste of it warm from the oven.
Nana taught me how to eat a peanut butter cracker: You put a bog dollop of peanut butter in the center of the round cracker, then nibble around the edges and save that gooey dollop for last.
Nana once gave me a wooden nickel she brought back from Niagara Falls.
Nana had beautiful white hair, and her blue eyes sparkled.
Her smile could light up the darkest time.
Her voice seemed to waver, but it was distinctive, which I know even though the exact sound of it has faded from my memory.
My mother loved her dearly. We all did.
I am thankful that my childhood was blessed with Nana.
I’ve missed her longer than I knew her, but I have always had her near me.