Gloria

I remember going to your house all the time so my parents could relax. I remember your slippery hard wood floors. I remember how much you fed me and my sister. My sister ate so many grapes she got sick, and you were terrified. I remember you letting us play around with your electric scooter, even though our age was in single digits. I remember your house in Oklahoma that we would drive up to sometimes. You had a tree in the backyard that was mostly bees. I remember the huge box of Barbies that we inherited that were mostly bald, and you handmade the clothes. I remember how you would play “Bus” with me and my sister, where we would be the passengers sitting in our seats (also known as the couch). I remember your brown, curly hair and the huge container of Joy laundry detergent in your laundry room. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎I remember you in the hospital because of my mom sobbing.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember your funeral.

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Billy

I remember seeing you at every gathering. You were so good with the new little cousins. You were very religious, a Reverend. You started up churches across the globe. We didn’t see you often because of how far you were from us. I remember you falling asleep at every Thanksgiving football game, plate of pie in hand. I remember how happy you and my great-grandmother were together. I remember how you always knew what was happening in our lives. I remember how you would pray over Thanksgiving meals and were so proud of every family member. You didn’t say much, but you would always talk with so much soul and heart. It’s been a decade, but it still feels a bit wrong not having you around at Thanksgiving. You had a sweet smile, and a dog named Maggie.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember you in the hospital because I asked if cancer was contagious.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎I remember your funeral.

Pat

I remember meeting you for the first time, and how both of you walked in with beaming smiles. I remember how happy you made my grandpa. How you and grandpa would tease each other. You would make cookies together and bring them to our house. I remember your wedding; your dress was beautiful. I remember how you and my grandpa showed up to almost every band or color guard event that I had, no matter the weather. I remember how excited you would be to see me and my sister. I remember when things began declining for you, and how your daughter wouldn’t listen. I remember Christmas day when you didn’t know what Nutella or peanut butter was, and I had to spread it on the waffles for you. You tried cutting the waffles with a spoon, because you didn’t know any better. I remember begging for updates on you, because I didn’t want to be out of the loop.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember you in the nursing home, then memory care.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember your funeral.

Zeus

I remember the day we adopted you. You were full of energy and fit four tennis balls in your mouth. I remember that you were given up because your previous owners didn’t know that a mastiff “would get that big.” I remember you taking up two stalls in the shelter, because, even at 2, you were a big boy. I remember hearing your bark for the first time on the drive back, and how we all got startled. I remember how popular you were at the shelter, and how lucky we were to have you.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember you chasing your tail in the living room, knocking things over, a bull in a China shop. Once, I had an anxiety attack, and you crawled up on the couch, even though that wasn’t allowed. I remember all the times you would lay on our feet or shoes to make sure we didn’t leave you. I remember you barking like crazy at some possums on the fence. I remember you playing babysitter to keep me and my sister safe. I remember doing online classes in 2021, and you would keep me company. You knew a lot about biology and pre-calculus.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember coming home from school or work, excited to see you and to scratch behind your ears and rub your belly. I remember all the drool with which you decorated our house. You were the best part of being home. I remember calling you my baby, no matter how big you were.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember how afraid you were of thunderstorms, the sound of the TV soothing you through the night. I remember you barking and running in your sleep. When it rains and storms, I only think of you.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I remember the call. We “lost” you. Some sort of undetectable blood cancer. I could not believe it, still can’t. I can’t stop crying thinking about the pain you must have been in. You were 11, much older than the average mastiff.
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ If only you had a funeral.