Baya

Today is my grandma Baya's 93rd birthday. I say that like I have other grandmas left, but like most adults my age, I do not. I'm extremely fortunate she's still around and that she can tell a dirty joke, and that up until just a few months ago, she's been sharp as a tack.

I talk to Baya every single day, if only just for a few minutes. We've been doing this for more than a decade; though we were always close, our relationship intensified when my grandfather passed away. In a hospital room, surrounded by his children and grandchildren and after a medium-length illness. When he took his last breath and it became clear he wasn't going to take another one, ever, my grandmother let out a wail the likes of which I hope to never hear again and fell into my arms.

They met when she was 16 years old. She'd recently lost her mother, and though she had plenty of siblings, it didn't seem like she had a friend in the world. He was on a date with a woman named Dirty-Necked Bertha and spied her at a party. Just like that. They were married for almost 60 years.

So, yes, I talk to my grandma every day. She's seen me through some tough times and I like to think I've helped her do the same. But now, when I talk to her, she's half there. She's confused. I think she knows who I am, but I'm not positive, and I don't test her. Sometimes she tells me she's been out shopping (she can't leave the house). Sometimes she asks where my grandfather is (she forgets he's gone). She still calls me Dolly. It's heartbreaking for me. I feel like I've lost my best friend, but she's still here, breathing.

For her, I hope it's not heartbreaking. I hope she continues to think she's going shopping, and going out to restaurants and affairs, and playing poker, and waiting for my Papa to get home from golfing so she can start dinner.

Happy birthday, Grandma. I love you. So much.