Dear Grandma,

I miss you. I wish you were around to have bananas and coke with me (I drink diet now and usually skip the banana) and share a good laugh. Or I’d just love to rest my head on your shoulder and fall asleep. Or take you out to Chinese – we’d have to go into the city because I haven’t found any decent places here in Jersey. I’d pick you up in Jan’s car because his car has a sun roof and you could wear your dark sun glasses and we could drive fast because I know if a cop were to pull us over somehow you’d manage to get us out of the ticket.

The other day I was wishing you were here to hang out with me and my girls. I missed you so much that I look my powder puff and smelled it because when I was little you were the only one I knew who had one, so I will forever associate a powder puff with you.  That smell, the smell of a powder puff saturated in makeup is the closest I can get to you (unless you aren’t occupied with heavenly duties and feel like visiting me).  You had one and so did all those 1940’s actresses who would pull out their compacts and powder puff while at a party. They were dressed in silky, form fitting dresses and they looked perfect . To me you were all glam, Grandma. You were Claudette Colbert. My mom didn’t have a powder puff. Only you did. And if you did anything it was bona fide. It was special.

Something happened that made me miss you more than ever.

This…

Millie put on the dress you bought for me when I was her age.

Oh, Grandma Lil – how I loved that dress. It made me feel like I was one of those 1940’s glamour girls (only more 1980’s/Barbara Mandrel). I don’t remember much about Primary, but I remember sitting in that dress and feeling like a million bucks. I loved how the sleeves would allow my shoulders to peek through every once and a while. I loved how it almost touched the ground. I loved the little fake pearl buttons, I didn’t know they were fake at the time.

Millie loves it too.

Thanks, Grandma.

I love you!