This month is the one-year anniversary of both my grandfather's death, and the beginning of the hardest year of my life. In this past year, Grandfather died, Daddy had a heart attack and subsequent sextuple bypass, and Grandmother died. And as hard as it was when Grandfather died, and as scary as it was when Daddy almost died, it was crushing when Grandmother died. Grandmother, she was my kindred spirit. She took me all over the state to different artistic venues. We'd go to Roundtop and hear amazing instrumentalists, we'd go see shows at Imagination Station. We had so many adventures together. She taught me how to sew, how to paint, how to cook, how to set a table, and how to love. I learned how to swim at their house. Grandfather taught me how to spit watermelon seeds, and how to jump off the diving board into the deep end of the pool. I always loved it when Grandfather worked on the ranch during the day because that meant at night, after Grandmother cooked dinner and I set the table and we all ate and cleaned the kitchen together, Grandfather would put on a John Wayne movie and I'd sit in his lap and we'd eat Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream straight out of the carton.
And then, when it was time for bed, I'd curl up in the king sized bed with the giant fluffy white comforter, under the white plantation shutters, and listen to the trains as I drifted off to sleep. On those humid summer nights and those cold, clear winter evenings, the trains were my midnight lullaby.
To this day I can't hear a train in the distance without thinking of my grandparents.
I miss them so much.
