We're three months out now, and it's still fascinating to see how Frannie's comprehension of death has changed since this spring. At least once a week, something will happen that reminds one of us of Gramma Paula, and Frannie will add "Gramma Paula, she died" to her side of the conversation. Sometimes, that is the end of it, and I'm fine with that. Other times, she asks questions:
Is Gramma Paula sick?
Is she at the hospital?
More often, I get little insights into how her mind processes this incomprehensible event.
When will Gramma Paula be done dying?
We can't see her.
I miss her.
I tell her: I miss her, too. We can remember her, and think about things we did with her.
I think about how my mother lost her father when I was Frannie's age, and I wonder about the questions I must have asked her then. I remember how happy it always made my mother that I had just a small memory of her father, waving to me as we drove away. I wonder what Frannie will remember when she is older.
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