I wish I could hear her voice again, her gentle cadence recalling girlhood. I wish I had her answers memorized.
Thinking about conversations on race and religion, knotty topics we'll never butt heads over again.
Seeing my baby son meet his other great-grandma, and wishing my Grandma had that quality time with him, too.
The postcards I bought for her everywhere I traveled but never managed to send. I saved them up to put in an album full of stories she can no longer read.
The autobiographical book of her remembrances on my list for Christmas, unbought and now unnecessary.
A Thanksgiving phone call I didn't make this year. Christmas glistening on the horizon, full of a million reminders of her absence.
Her presence in my heart, her ring on my finger as we drive through autumn near her part of the country. I can't even come close to forgetting.