Memorial Day always makes me think of Mutti. Mutti was my mom's mom. She claimed each birthday that she was turning 26, and was never referred to as "Grandma." It was always Mutti to everyone around her.
Some of my earliest memories are of going to the East Lawn cemetary to visit my Grandpa's grave with Mutti and other family members. This Monday when I go to East Lawn, I'll be visiting my Mutti's grave as well. She's been dead nearly a decade and my memories are stating to fade a little. But I still remember her home phone number. I remember watching Jeopardy on the tiny TV in her kitchen and the weird footstool in her basement that was stuffed with nylons. Kinda creepy. I remember the figurine of a Chinese man fishing that sat on her piano. I remember her always perfectly manicured hands. I remember the Eagle Scout wall with pictures of all her grandsons who had received their Eagles. I remember her beautiful garden and the many flag inspired sweaters she owned. I remember learning how to make apple pie with her, and even though I hate making pie, I'm glad I have that memory. They are all great, happy memories, but I'd trade them all for a chance to see her again. I think she would've loved to do Sudoku puzzles with me. And she would've helped me decorate my house. She would still cook my mom's favorite birthday dinner of salmon loaf and scalloped potatoes while the rest of us avoided it as much as we could. She'd play Rook with us, make homemade chocolates, and continue writing poems. And she'd be so happy to see all of her amazing posterity.
I'm pretty sure she's busy up in Heaven directing choirs and insisting that every member have their music memorized. But I hope she knows how much her family loves and misses her.