My grandma passed just as the summer heat gave way to fall. Her death was nothing spectacular as she died peacefully in her sleep. We were all sad, of course, but not shocked. Being at the age of 85 and in declining health, my family and I knew it was only a matter of time. Even though it has been a few months since her passing, our house still feels a little too empty, just a little too quiet. 

I was too young to really be impacted by my grandfather’s death just five years ago, yet I still felt the difference in atmosphere. He and my grandma would dance together to the radio every night and we would all share meals together. After he was gone things felt just as they do now. A little too empty, just a little too quiet.

Now the house belongs to my parents and we try to carry on business as usual. The problem is that it’s not that easy. When I pass by my grandma’s room, I can still smell the sweetness of her perfume and when I see her rocking chair sitting still in the corner, I am reminded about the times she would sing me to sleep. Her voice was so warm and comforting that I can’t help but to tear up remembering it.

“When you get to be my age, Mason,” she would say, “You realize that all the small stuff doesn’t really matter.”

“What do you mean the small stuff?” I would ask while sitting in front of her. Her face was lit by a gentle candle light and the only sound was the light squeak of the rocking chair.

“Oh, you know, the little arguments and things that make you mad in the moment. They don’t matter.”

“Well then what does matter, grandma?”

She smiled and leaned forward to put her hand on my head, “It’s the ones you love that really matter in life. You don’t realize that until you’re my age because that’s when they’re gone.”

Even though her words were pretty clear I still didn’t fully understand. Now that she has passed, though, they have their intended meaning. She was a constant presence in my life that I wish I could have appreciated more.

During the summer months I would have my friends from school come over to the house and we would spend the day playing in the yard. My mom and dad would watch us and sometimes join in, always sure to give us snacks and drinks, or bandages if we had gotten hurt. I remember running through the grass and the gentle breeze would blow the clouds overhead and bring with it spots of shade and sun. Grandma sat on her porch swing and watched us.

She spent the whole day on that swing, always sitting on the left seat since my grandpa always used to take the right. Sometimes I would see her holding out seeds and birds would eat straight out of her hands. I was never able to get them to eat from mine.

“Mason,” she would laugh, “You’ve got to be more patient, hun. They won’t come to you if you’re moving.”

I crossed my arms at her words and only pouted as I was too stubborn to change my attitude. Upon seeing this she would take me on walks near the woods instead. She said that the woods were her favorite because of how the trees sounded when the wind blew through them and she also loved to watch the chipmunks and squirrels run around and climb them, too. 

When the fall would come around she would bring me to collect some of the fallen leaves. Her favorite were the large maple leaves when they were a ruby-tinted orange while mine were the small golden birch leaves. We would pick a few of the best ones and bring them inside to put on display.

“Sometimes I think people are too afraid of growing old,” she told me one misty day while holding a particularly red leaf, “I really don’t think it’s something to be sad about.”

“You don’t wish you were younger, Grandma? All the old people say is that they wish they were younger.”

Her eyes lit up at my comment, “Oh, hun, I’m not that old!” she laughed, then said, “No, actually. I don’t wish I was younger. I think that getting older is just another part of life, and life is beautiful.” She looked up at the trees, then, as if the thought had just popped into her head, she pointed to the leaf in her hand.

“You see, it’s like the leaves on the trees. Just as they changed to reds and yellows, my hair has changed to grey. Just like the leaves lose their form, my skin gets wrinkled throughout the years. Am I any less beautiful than the leaves?”

Her sudden intensity surprised me but it made sense. She rarely wore makeup except for certain occasions as she claimed that her natural features were already beautiful. She never wanted to accept any help even when it was harder for her to do things that she used to. 

Winter was when she first got sick. It started with coughing, light at first that got worse over time. She told us that it was just from the cold and dryness but when it wouldn’t stop we all knew that something wasn’t right. Some days would be better than others yet it never fully got better. 

Eventually she weakened and had trouble getting out of the rocking chair. Most days she would spend just sitting there. Her breath would be short yet she would still tell me stories and sing to me, though her voice was raspier than before. I spent most of my free time by her side.

“Why do you look so sad, hun?” She asked me one day. I didn’t know then how to express that I was sad for her. I was sad because she couldn’t move like she used to. Her chair sat in front of the fireplace because she wasn’t able to get herself up to sit in front of it anymore. That made me sad too.

She must have been able to tell what I was thinking because she said, “Oh, hun. Don’t be sad for me. Getting sick is just a part of life.” She noticed that this didn’t console me so she followed it with, “Just because I can’t get around anymore doesn’t mean I should be sad.” Then she reached her hand up and placed it on the side of my face, wiping a tear away with her thumb, “I’m happy because you’re here. As long as you’re with me I will never be sad. Please don’t be sad for me.”

Spring had come early this year and grandma’s health was still declining. In past years she had liked to go out and find the most beautiful wild flowers that bloomed in the area. I would hide inside and watch from the window when it rained but she would be outside with her arms outstretched, just content and soaking in the rain. My mom was always upset when my grandma walked back inside drenched and trailing water but that never stopped her from loving every drop of the spring showers. Now my parents placed her rocking chair in front of the open window when it rained so she could feel the wind and the drops that managed to enter through it. My mom didn’t complain about the floor getting wet anymore.

The doctors couldn’t figure out why she was getting sicker. Grandma would tell them it was just nearing her time to leave, which wasn’t much help in the matter. She refused medication because she didn’t want the side effects.

“I’m not in pain, I'm not uncomfortable. I don’t need medicine.” She told my mom one day. After a few arguments, my mom gave up trying to convince her  because she realized my grandma truly didn’t think she needed medicine. She could not walk on her own at all anymore and needed help to eat or drink, which I was always happy to give.

 When summer finally came along, she always sat by the window. It made her happy to feel the warm breeze and she would demand that we be quiet when a particularly strong gust blew by because it was the only time she could hear the leaves blowing. Her words were slurred now, her eyes stayed closed most of the time. Even though she couldn’t sing to me anymore she would still hum the same songs that she always did. The sound of her hums was just as warm as her voice.

I would play with my friends in the yard like I did every summer but now I just saw Grandma looking out the window instead of sitting on the porch swing. I would wave to her but she didn’t wave back, whether it was because she couldn’t see me well enough anymore or because she just didn’t have the energy, I didn’t know. My parents stayed inside with her now, so my friends and I were left to our own devices most days.

Just as the first leaves started to fall was when Grandma finally passed away. She layed on her bed that night. I had been sure to bring her the most beautiful red and orange leaf that I had found that day. When I placed it in her hand she cried, though I don’t think it was from sadness.

“Mason, I don’t think I have much time left with you here. I just want you to know how much I have enjoyed being with you every day...” Her words were slow now and I knew it was hard for her to say them. I cried as she reached her hand up to my face and wiped my tears. 

“I want you to know that I am happy… I have lived long and I am happy. Please don’t be sad for me, hun…” She let her hand fall, “This is what life is all about and I have lived it to the fullest. Please… Promise me that you will live life to the fullest too.”

“I promise, Grandma. I promise.”

Those were the last words we spoke to each other as she passed away that night. Now, in the present, I still walk through the woods and collect the leaves that we would find together and my mom is sure that the most beautiful ones are always on display. Even now, the house feels a little too empty, just a little too quiet. Though when I tear up at the smell of my grandma’s perfume or the sight of her chair sitting still in the living room it’s not from sadness. It’s from happiness in her memory.