Two weeks ago I got the call I’ve been expecting for a while: my brilliant, strong, tough-as-nails Gram in pint-size form (she was only 4’11) had passed away. My gram was 21 years old when she married my grandfather, but she’d never yet left the Chicago City lines. When he was sent to California before heading out to fight in the Pacific Theater of WWII as a young Marine, she took the California Zephyr, alone, from Chicago to San Francisco, to be with him, a trip I had the privilege of replicating with my kids when I moved from Maine to Hawaii. She went to work during the war, and she was a computer when computers were people and not machines. Her love of numbers carried through as she played the stock market (she taught me how to read the Dow Jones listing when I was a small kid, sprawled out over the newspaper on the living room floor). She was a talented artist, too: I still have her sketches from her days at art school, and I remember her doodling to entertain me in the evenings. She had an incredibly generous heart, and she also had the savvy to know who deserved that generosity. She loved animals, feeding her raccoons was a nightly event, and all of us knew we had to save our leftovers from any outing for her babies. Fear never really seemed to be part of her vocabulary. She just moved forward through whatever obstacles life put in her path. I feel like she gave me a little of that fearlessness, and so much more. We didn’t always see eye to eye, and she wasn’t always easy, but we loved each other fiercely nonetheless. Knowing something is coming, doesn’t help the sadness when it finally arrives. It’s hard knowing this person that has always been such a huge presence in my life (even when I didn’t see her for long stretches) is gone. She was the matriarch of my world, and it seems so much emptier without her in it.