I know we are taught to expect the loss of a grandparent.
It’s one of the few losses in life that we actively prepare for, imagine, and share with almost any adult we encounter.
But I was not expecting this.
My Mima passed away yesterday morning, her cause of death unknown and entirely unexpected. We had spoken on the phone at 8:21 p.m. the night before, as I called to discuss which size she wanted me to knit her shirt in.
I did not think that the last time we spoke would be about shirt sizes or on a random Monday night, barely a week after Mother’s Day. I had always imagined something far later into the 90s—something manageable, something I could prepare for.
But I was not expecting this.
It’s hard for me to articulate this to those who don’t know me, but losing Mima is an immeasurable loss. Of course, frequency doesn’t always equal value, but most days we’d speak over the phone 2-3 times. We’d gab about how Trump is ruining the country, what she’d had for breakfast, my weekend plans, and all of the dramas of my life.
I spent the entirety of yesterday habitually opening my phone app and feeling as though I’d forgotten to call someone. But there was no memory lapse, I simply had the muscle memory of speaking to her constantly. And for the first time, I didn’t know who to call in her place. She’s not a friend I got into a fight with, so I could call someone else instead. She’s my Mima and entirely unreplaceable.
My mother still can’t speak about the loss of her grandmother, Sonia, whom I am named after. And I’d never totally understood why, even 20 years later.
But as the sun rises on the first day Mima will never get to see, I can’t imagine this ache ever leaving me.
Mima and I would talk about weddings and boys. She’d joke around by sending me funny things that reminded her of my ex-boyfriends or my horoscope in the paper every week. We’d talk about White Lotus every Monday and Handmaid’s Tale every Wednesday.
As I sit in my late Aunt’s room of my grandparents’ house, the same house they’ve lived in together for 50 years, I can hear the echo of my Pop Pop putting away the dishes. And I somehow have to accept that when I go downstairs, she will not be there, wrapped in her same fluffy robe, Starbucks coffee next to her, ready to discuss the unforeseen ending of this week’s Handmaid’s Tale episode.
But I was not expecting this.
Mima followed my TikTok, liked every Instagram story, and texted me during every flight that I had a sudden rush of nerves. Mima was sharp, attentive, and totally with it. You’d truly have no clue she was in her 80’s. She’d want me to tell you she did her pilates every day and always got a walk in. She loved to make Blue Zone dinners and the Stanley Tucci chicken bolognese.
There’s so much more I want to say and that I will say about her. I find myself absolutely terrified at the prospect of days, weeks, months, and eventually years without her. So I’ll share one last thing.
It was a nice day in August a few years ago when I’d first moved back to the area. Her and I had run errands, and made our way back into the house. The weather was so temperate, the door to the living room was left open and the buzz of the world around us was made clear.
Mima looked at me a little bit puzzled, but with a big smile. When I asked her what she was thinking, she said,
“You know I am so lucky to be your Mima. But, I would’ve loved to have been born at the same time as you because I would’ve really loved to have been your friend.”
And I was not expecting that.
The truth is, Mima was a best friend. Despite our decades between us, we were more than grandmother and granddaughter. We were just girls two together. Our closeness made it easy to forget that our time forever was not promised and unexpected things happen.
But I was not expecting any of this.
She’d text me every time I wrote one of these, telling me how talented she thinks I am and that she hopes one day, I write a book of my own.
As I build up the courage to try to go downstairs and meet a world without her in it, I know that the world is not better off for it. One day, when I’m all wrinkly and with grandchildren of my own, I will ask them to call me Mima and I will hope to be girls with them too.
To Lois Ruth, my favorite person and one of my truest friends. I hope you read this and don’t get upset when you see me wearing your bathrobe downstairs.
I love you always, and thank you for being a girl with me.