My last grandparent passed away last week.  There are no more left for me.  I lost one a few months ago.  I can’t say it was a real surprise when she left but I wasn’t ready for it.  This one?  This one came out of nowhere.  One minute she was living alone and taking care of herself and the next she had a heart attack.  Everything changed.  The heart attack didn’t take her body but it did take her will to live.  She was done and ready to move on.  I can only say that I hope she was able to look back on her life and feel joy at what she did and accomplished.  She had three kids and raised them all to be independent adults who take care of themselves and are happy with their lives.  Each has children of their own who are all independent and – most of them – have their own children.  There’s not many other things I know.  Don’t get me wrong – I know some family stories from my mom’s perspective but not my grandmother’s.  She just wasn’t the type to recount such events.  She liked to tell it like she sees it right now and to hell with the consequences.  I supposed most people feel that way once they reach a certain age but tact is still a wonderful thing.  I feel sad that some of my children never met her.  They only know of her through my stories and our pictures.  I do not know of any 4 generations of girls picture – although I hope there’s one that has escaped my memory.  What makes me even more sad is that there is no longer a buffer between death and my parents.  I hate to even think it but they are the next in line to go and I’m not ready for that.  It happens – death is a natural part of life.  But, I’ll be after them.  It will one day be my turn.  What will my children remember of me?  What will my grandchildren or great grandchildren think of when my name is mentioned?  I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to document family stories.  I feel the need to write things I remember and opinions I have.  I’d like my family to remember my wild and crazy side and not my overly dramatic side.  (I always wondered where my daughter gets that!)  I suppose I’m telling myself to journal more?  I suppose I’m telling myself that each story NEEDS to be written before it’s forgotten in a massive web of neurons never to be found again.  I suppose I’m telling myself that I need to make more of my time here and worry less about where I should be in the next 5 years or so.  Will that matter to my children?  I doubt it.  If they can look back and say they had a great time with mom doing whatever we did, I’d call that a success.  If they feel joy at remembering their childhood, I’d call that a success.  If they look back and know they were loved beyond measure even if they didn’t really like me at the time, I’d call that a success.  If they know without a shadow of a doubt that their parents will help them succeed however they can even if that means letting them manage the hard road through life, I’d call that a success.  They’ve been given to me for such a short time and one day they will be called home too.  We all need to make the most of that time here.  Easier said than done – I know.  But, I need to make a start.  Baby steps over time add up to some giant steps successfully accomplished.