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After all these years, I still get the urge to call you, to talk about life and all the things that have happened thus far that you missed out on—my marriage on your birthday, our relocation to Arizona, the births of your four granddaughters. Two from my sister and twins from me. Just time and stories that I wish I could call and tell you about.

You see, Gram, you were gone too soon. I’ll never forget the day you left us, surrounded by family and friends in that hospital room, attached to monitors that had you holding onto life. You didn't want to let go, so I told you it was okay. I told you it was time, that we all would be fine, and that you deserved to rest now. The stroke you suffered put you through three months of living hell, and you never deserved how you suffered.

So even though you weren't awake, I always knew that since we spoke so much and had such a close relationship, you were always listening. I knew you would hear me when I spoke to you because you always heard me. Through so many conversations, you listened, gave advice, and told me in your eyes I could do no wrong. Our relationship was a friendship between grandmother and granddaughter that was so unique and special it warranted a phone call every night, because we always had so much to talk about.

From our times ordering garbage pizza and staying up way too late watching General Hospital reruns, eating ice and those long pretzel sticks that had way too much salt. To ordering pizza from Chicago's best, Al's Pizza, but Benny's as well. To us watching Maury and Jerry Springer with you when my sister and I were way too young, and my mom would walk in and you would laugh and say, “They made me do it.” We always would guess who the father was or was not.

I still feel terrible about that time I got scared about that ant in the car. I screamed about there being a bug, my mom slammed on the brakes, and your head hit the windshield.

So as the room was quiet and the monitors beeped, I did the only thing I knew to do: hold your hand and talk to you. I mentioned memories. I named just a few, because there were too many to count. I told you how much we all love you and how we all were there with you. I told you it was okay for you to go to Grandpa and to see your dogs and family in heaven. I knew that's exactly what you needed to hear in that moment, and I knew you would go there after this lifetime.

I told you that none of us would ever forget you, but it was time to let go and not be afraid. I told you that you would always be loved and never forgotten, and as soon as I stopped talking, it was as if our call dropped. Which, in a way, I guess it did. But instead, it was your line to this life.

I’ll never forget the tone of the monitor flatlining when your soul left your body. But every day since that happened, I have wished for just one more phone call or some sort of sign from you that you truly never left me. I choose to believe you're my guardian angel and never thought I'd actually get my proof years later, that I know for a fact that indeed you are.

Calls sometimes come at the oddest times, particularly when you need some sort of reminder in life. At 33, raising two kids, running a home and marriage, dealing with a chronic illness, I was at a point of needing a call for a long time.

Call it what you may. Grief. Wishing the pain in my head would go away that makes living on the daily so hellish. Sometimes I just wish I could talk and dial your damn number. You dealt with headaches as well, maybe not as chronic, but again, you would get it. You would also get how they have altered my life, work, and health in general, and how it has changed where I thought I'd be. I know it would never change what you thought of me, though.

So when I am blue, I have told my children about their great-grandma and about her life and how great she is to me, and how I swear she picked them out. I tell them often how much I still miss you, but never expected you to give me the message I needed.

Randomly, on a recent day, I was going through paperwork looking for my birth certificate and social security card. I know I keep them together, but can't remember the last time I needed them. I finally found them in an old pink zip folder in my old filing container that I hadn't gone through in what seemed like decades. As I was pulling out the papers, out tumbled a folded up piece of paper that read,

“To a Keeper

One day someone's mom died, and on that clear cool night we are struck with the pain of learning that there isn't anymore.

No more hugs, no more special moments to celebrate together, no more phone calls just to say hello and how is your day going along.

Sometimes what we care about most gets all used up and goes away, never to return before we can say good-bye or say ‘I love you.’

So while we have it, it's best we love it, and care for it, and fix it when it's broken and heal it when it's sick.

This is true for marriage and old cars and children with bad report cards and dogs with bad hips and aging parents and grandparents.

Some things we keep like a best friend we grew up with.

We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it. Mainly, because these people are our keepers in our lives.

Bingo nights on Saturdays with some juicy beef sandwiches for dinner. 30.00

Pasta dinner on a Sunday with family and on holidays too. 75.00

Going to a Do-Wop show with a best friend—priceless!”

This note was not signed, but by God, was I crying at my kitchen table after I finished this letter. It was from her. I almost second-guessed it, because the handwriting almost looked like mine, but I knew I never wrote this, even though I love writing.

How did she know I'd need this reminder someday? So many things lined up. Pink was her favorite color. It was with important documents. She knew and always told me to keep my stuff together and safe. She lived with us for a while, so she would have been able to put the letter there. It held information only she would know.

I shared it with my mom, her daughter. She couldn't believe it either. My sister was in shock as well. This letter was copied and shared with family.

As it turned out, we all needed to hear it, but I needed to be the one to find it. For some reason it was left for me to find. Maybe she knew I would need to be reminded that I was a keeper despite the circumstances I'd be dealing with someday, and that I'd need to hear it from her. From my Gram, at the number that I still wished to dial.

So she tucked life answers away for me to find years later, to share with family and all who choose to read this and be reminded that they are keepers too, and despite what they may be feeling, whether it may be pain, grief, illness, happiness, or their shortcomings keep on loving and keep on keeping on