Dear Gramma,

I was in the hospital today. They don’t know what’s wrong with me (and, honestly, I’m a little scared). 

Being in the hospital always makes me think of you. The phone calls we shared months before you left us, when I had to call the hospital and ask the nurse to connect me to you. When Aunt Bertha answered one day, and pretended to be you, and even though her voice is sooo different from yours, I believed her for at least 3 minutes.

The nurse who took my blood poked me at least 5 times, and when they gave me an IV I got at least 2 more pokes. I thought of you then, with your bruises, and how you’d complain and gripe about the nurses. 

I really wish you were here right now. I know it wouldn’t change anything, and you probably wouldn’t even be at the hospital with me (because you hate that place as much as I do), but I just wish you were.


I love you, Gramma. 




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