All you need is trust...and a little bit of pixie dust... - Peter Pan

My grandma, Diana (Pixie) Mary Daly passed away peacefully today at 10pm. I know I should be an adult and accept that life has to end someday. I mean, she was 93 years old and has lived a full life, however, I just feel as though there was so much left unsaid, you know?

I keep replaying the last time we saw each other before she got sick. And I wish more than anything that I stayed with her for longer. That we could have had a long talk about the past, my memories of her and her thoughts on death.

If someone passes and you leave things unsaid (i.e. grandma, you're an amazing woman....you were like a mom to me when I went through tough times with my mom...your independent life has made such an impact/impression on my life...I wish I had your strength), then you feel deep regret. I mean, at her bedside, while she lay there looking so peaceful, I told her how much I loved her and that she will always be in my heart, and then cried buckets after getting the words out. But I didn't say the things that I should have said.

So all this preamble to say this: I will take the opportunity here to say the things left unsaid.

Dear Grandma,

I know you hate all the mushy stuff and would probably get annoyed at what I'm about to say, but I feel like it needs to be said in remembrance of you. Who you are...and who you were.

My earliest memory of you is at Christmas...probably 1983. I was five years old and playing Hungry Hippos with my brother on the floor. You sat on our light brown patent leather couch knitting and telling my brother to 'play fairly' as he continued to smash my hippo with his fist. I remember getting mad and going to sit in your lap as you knit something...probably for me. Your perfume was floral, and you always reminded me of royalty for some reason. You were regal in a way, although completely unintentionally.

As I grew older, and visited your place many times, I remember eating right from your garden. We would walk through the garden chatting and you would reach out and snap off something green and get me to try it. As a child it was snow peas, as a 20-something year old, it was kale. Both crunchy, one sweet, the other one earthy. My love of vegetables stems from those memories.

I remember you kept Count Chocula cereal in a cupboard for my brother who loved the sugary sweet stuff at the break of dawn. I always asked for toast, and to this day, the smell of toast reminds me of sitting in your eat-in kitchen with homemade bread, jam and butter not margarine. The newspaper was always spread out on the table waiting to be read.

I remember you always tried to find a friend for me to play with when I went to stay with you as you thought I would get bored 'hanging out with the old folks'. Awkwardly, I would play with someones granddaughter who's grandma had the very same idea as you.

I remember coming to see you in 2003-ish. I drove up in my Jetta (oh how I loved that Jetta...it was my first away trip with it) and spent a couple nights with you and Aunt Madeleine who was also up for a visit. Madeleine and I spent the days down at the beach tucked away in these massive smooth rocks, both immersed in books while lazily talking about boys and life. At night, we ate dinner and all had enough wine to make our faces rosey. You tried to convert us into Charlie Rose fans...but Grandma, I never really got that show but maybe I just didn't give it enough of a chance.

I remember the day that you took me around town introducing me to everyone as your 'grandaughter who is going to UBC studying politics'. Just politics thank you very much.

But the memory I will never forget is the last 'well' visit. I remember you, with sotto-voce as you always spoke due to that damn Parkinsons, announcing to everyone in the cafeteria that Bella was your 'great granddaughter'. No one could hear you so I repeated it for everyone feeling a bit shy. But you were so proud. Beaming in fact. I'm so glad that Bella got to meet you and vice versa. If only it were for a bit longer but there's a point where you need to let go.

Among many other things, you know what I wish we would have talked about that last visit? I wish you could have told me why everyone called you Pixie. Was it because you were mischievous as a child? A playful spirit? As you grew older, I believe your playfulness became wit, adventure and fierce independence. Much like a pixie.

And one last word before I go. For all those years and birthdays, and Christmases and Easters when I didn't send a thank you card. Thank you with the depth of my heart. You never forgot to send a card with little messages of what you were up to, alongside a gift. You always planned it well so that they arrived well before the actual celebration day...so my brother and I would itch in anticipation. And sorry grandma for not being as diligent with gift-giving and card writing. That is not my forte. I get so wrapped up in the day-to-day that I tend to forget the written thank you's. But please know that I am thankful for having you in my life. And hopefully as life goes on, you will be up there somewhere listening to my pleas, as well as gratitudes for what life holds for me and my family in the future.