I always meet Grams at Bob Evans for lunch on Saturdays. She always has something for me.

If I'm leaving for my next semester of college, it's 50 dollars in rolled quarters and a marker that you can write your name on your clothes with. "Don't let anyone take your nice white towels!" she says.

If I'm moving to Chicago, she gives me a box: dishes, silverware and cloth napkins for eight dinner guests.
"Grams, I live in a studio apartment. I don't own a table."
"We'll, you never know...." she shrugs.

If I talk about wanting cupcakes at my future wedding, she buys me a cupcake stand.
"I was at Meijer," she shrugs.

If its the fall, Grams has knitted me a scarf, complete with a tag safety pinned on it that reads "Love Grandma." She says, "No one makes any tags that say Grams!"

And if I ever get a new coat that's a different color, she flips over the paper place mat and digs through her purse to find a pen. I trace my hand. There will be mittens in time for the first frost.

We always order the same thing: grilled chicken with baby carrots and mashed potatoes and tons of coffee and we split a piece of coconut cream pie on our birthdays, or just whenever we feel like it. When I'm going through my vegan/veggie phases and order the fruit plate, my Grams just interprets it as me wanting to lose a "couple pounds."

Grams gets older. She stops driving. We stop going to Bobs. I get busy without her. I forget to call.

On a too-cold-for-outdoor-recess Monday afternoon, there is a voicemail from my uncle. I feel like all of my insides have moved out and left an echo-y empty living room. I am a hollow body.

I don't know what to do with my hands. I can't turn my brain off long enough to sleep. So I go to the store and cook all of the food. I want to be able to feed everyone so they don't have to take their sad face anywhere anyone is going to ask them if they are ok. What do you say? I want to make them treats that Grams would make. I want them to remember.

My nephew grabs my hand at the showing.
"Let's go see Grandma."
He closes his eyes at the casket and folds his hands.
"Grandma I hope your new house and life are really great. I'm going to miss you so much. I love you so much. Amen."

I am a hollow body. My insides moved out.

He stands at the casket. He shakes hands with my Grams' friends. "Hi my name is Felix. I found 96 cents today. Want to see my money?" He is eight and I am so in awe of him. It's hard to even look at anyone and he's touching everyone's mitts.

My uncle hands me the keys after the funeral. "I get distracted," he says. I am in charge. I am driving behind the hearse. When did I become that age to become in charge? I am scared and mush and wear my sunglasses because I can't find my normal face.

There are so many questions as I pack up her things. What do I keep for me? What if I ever have a daughter? What will she want? There are so many things that remind me of her and my mom and both of them looking in the mirror to see their painted faces and styled hair. Deborah. I can hear her voice saying my moms name and it makes me feel hollow from my ears to my feet. Echo-y and empty.

It's such a strange feeling to remember good things, things from a person that can't create any more remembers. It's scary because you're not guaranteed to remember again. So you try to sit in that moment for as long as the dishes, laundry, groceries, your job allows you. And then you turn it off because its sad and you want new ones. And then you feel hollow. So I create all of these sad facts. She will never meet my kids. She will never know their names. She will never knit anything for them. My therapist says I can't do this it's torture. But I think maybe if I think about the horrible facts now it won't blindside me while I'm teaching science on a Wednesday afternoon or checking out of the grocery. Maybe if I think about it now it will go away.

But my hands smell like going through her jewelry all day and now her white linens are in my dining room and when I take one of her handbags out with me, one that is turquoise and smells like her sweaters, I find a tiny hearing aid battery at the bottom

and I can't help but hope she brought extra to wherever she is now.