Dear Grammy,

I thought of you today.

Actually, I’ve thought of you a lot recently. 

This past weekend, I went to San Diego. To Mission Beach to be exact. We stayed just a few courts from your old apartment. I remember parking the truck in the parking lot to the left. How we always had to make sure we did all of the grocery shopping on the weekdays because finding parking in Mission Beach on the weekends was a nightmare. 

I ran past the other apartment too. The apartment that I loved the most. I loved playing on the patio outside or looking out through those large floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors. That’s when I learned the word “patio.” We didn’t have patios in Hawaii. Just garages. Or maybe we did, but to me, a patio was always something belonged in San Diego. 

I remember Kai and I would throw Cheeto puffs (the ones shaped as little balls) and try to catch them in our mouths. We would sit on the old lifeguard bench that you’d set up and watch the waves crash and people roam the beach. 

Everything has a white tint when I remember it now, like its been washed over by the sun. I wonder if it really was like that.

I remember eating out there too. You always cooked a full meal. Steak, rice (the kind I hated because it didn’t stick together), potatoes, greens. How did you do that for all of those years?

You used to always make us take pictures. I hated it because it required so much standing still and smiling wide, even though the sun was in my eyes. 

I love those pictures now. 

Three months of every year. Every other Christmas. A full high school education. A full college education. 

I could smell the salt of the ocean and taste it in the air. Bonfires, dry sea breezes, the sounds of Belmont Park. They all belong to you. 
When I landed, I didn’t recognize anything in the airport. But as I continued to walk, I neared baggage claim. The clear railing overlooks the carousels where people pick up luggage. And where you picked us up year after year. 

I looked for you there. 

In my car ride to Mission Beach, I waited. When we circled the round-about, I felt like I was coming home. The sushi place is still there on the corner and the old wooden roller coaster remains as weather-beaten and rickety as always. 

When I arrived at Coronado court, the sun had turned the ocean orange and the sand was a deep gray hue. I could hear people laughing. I remember when we would sit on that same lifeguard bench on the patio and watch as the world took on these same colors. Or when we would take beach chairs and walk out to the Bay. Our skin still hot from the daytime heat of the sun, we would don sweaters and wait as the earth cooled. 

You taught me about practical things. How people should follow rules (remember when you stole those boys’ surfboards? Serves them right for parking in your spot and calling you “fucking grandma”). I shared that story with my friends as we sat in the small living room of our Mission Beach rental. They were on your side.

I am so thankful that on top of your teachings of logic and hardwork, you taught me to see the magic in everyday life. You gave me my love of crystals and horoscopes and psychics. 

You taught me about enjoying a good meal. We ate across the street from Saskas this weekend. I loved going there with you. I don’t eat steak anymore but the sight of it made me smile. 

It’s the little things like that I guess. Just sitting with the people you love. Enjoying good food. Talking about things that seem important but also things that make you laugh. Telling stories. 

Today, back in San Francisco, I got to interview an incredible woman who has a true talent for designing homes. When asked who or what inspires her, she brought up her grandmother. Without even knowing it, this matriarch had infused her life with beautiful style, cozy decor, and a love of creating a home. 

It made my throat hurt but also my heart full. 

You did the same for me. You knew how to create a home. You knew how to make people feel welcomed. How to create a space that felt beautiful but not precious. A place that you could come into and relax. Breathe a sigh of relief, you’re at Grammy’s. 

It’s hard to explain to people how I’ll miss you. How it happens out of the blue. You’re not a parent. You’re not a sibling. Almost everyone has lost a grandparent. 

But you were special. I love you. I’m glad I thought of you (even if it felt uncomfortable). 

I hope I’m living a life you’d be proud of. 

-Kellen.