My grandmother was an amazing packer. You'd think she was raised on a boat with a tiny bed suspended from the ceiling and a kitchen table that doubled as guest quarters. She did not. She grew up in a house in Washingtonville, New York with seven siblings. Perhaps being one of eight made her feel space was valuable. Or being raised during the Great Depression, the feeling that nothing should be wasted, not even space in a suitcase.
She taught me to roll up my socks and underwear and put them in my shoes, and the shoes went in a plastic bag, probably a clear produce bag she had saved from the grocery store. She always seemed to find extra space that I didn't imagine existed. This was true for packing a car as well. She could neatly and efficiently pack a trunk like no one else.
The person she is today is so different than the woman she once was. I guess I keep writing about it because I still have a hard time accepting that the woman I've loved all these years is slowly dying in a nursing home tonight. I will keep writing about it, because I want to honor who she was while still loving who she is now.
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