Really, I knew before I listened. But hearing the news, delivered so calmly and so in-character for my dad, well - it hit me hard. She'd been sick before - in a coma for quite a few months while I lived in Maui, and my dad feared she'd never pull through that, and kept urging me to come visit her. Finally, after my situation in Maui improved and I could get away for a few days, I agreed - And just before my trip, my dad told me she had woken up. 

When I arrived in New Jersey, I found my grandmother more gaunt, more frail and visibly smaller than I'd ever seen her before. But she was not only alive, she was lively. And as I watched her bicker with my dad, I knew two things: that she loved him tremendously and appreciated his care even if she protested (1), and that she'd be holding on for a while longer. 

(1) she'd lost her husband when I was only 5 or 6, her daughter when I was in middle school, and her other son in March - though only found out in May

Though I inherited my last name (Stetser) and a lot of other qualities from the German side of my dad's family, the Irish Rileys were my dad's mother's side of the family. 

From them, through her, I inherited part of my pale complexion, my hair's tendency to redden in the summer, a certain feistiness in the face of things I find unfair and in times of conflict, my tendency to form and hold strong opinions (which, over time, has mellowed out for all but those things I hold most dear), and my persistence. 

Whenever we'd visit my grandmother in Woodstown (until she got sick and went into the coma and her house was sold), we'd have picnics on a picnic table that must have been 20 years old when I was born. It was circular, with two semi-circle benches and a hole in the middle that held an aluminum pole and umbrella for shading the sun. I remember it being a rather drab shade of gray, the same color some people paint concrete blocks to make them (unsuccesfully) look - I don't know, less concretey?

The year I moved back to the northeast from Atlanta, I drove a u-haul from the south to Boston and stopped to visit my father and grandmother along the way. Before long, Mom-mom took me aside and asked me to help her reseal the picnic table. So we grabbed a couple of brushes, a can of red sealant paint, and set about adding another coat to the old table, which she'd painted red at some point during the years I'd not had a chance to visit. 

"Johnny" she said of my dad impertinently, "wanted to throw away this table. He said it was rotted through, and I told him it just needed some care." 

She shook her head, as if shocked he'd suggest getting rid of it, though while I listened and brushed and stroked, I noticed that in places on the benches and the edges of the table, the wood had indeed rotted, soft and spongy underneath the skin of sealant. 

"That boy wants to get rid of things too quickly sometimes," she told me, feisty as ever, "You just have to take better care of things and they'll last for a very long time."

Thanks, Mom-mom. For sticking around for so long. For being so strong in so many ways. For everything you've given me and taught me. I love you and I'll miss you.