I hope when my grandkids think of me, they don’t just remember what I looked like, smelled like or the sound of my voice.

I hope they remember how it felt to be around me.

I hope they remember the days at the beach with me and Poppa.
Salt in the air. Sand everywhere. Laughter carried on the wind.

I hope they remember paddling on the paddle board—sometimes confidently, sometimes not—towing us around like ailing captains who probably should’ve known better, but were having far too much fun to care.

I hope they remember building sandcastles or driftwood forts that never lasted long, and playing War of the Worlds—where imagination mattered more than rules and everyone got to be brave in their own way. Even if the game sometimes ended in tears because someone “cheated.” I hope they remember dance parties on the pontoon boat, Easter Egg Hunts in the backyard, Uno games, long walks, and the quiet joy I felt simply watching them have fun.

I want them to remember that my door was always open—sometimes literally, sometimes just in the way my heart leaned toward them.

I want them to remember that there was always room at the table. Even if the meal was simple. Even if plans changed. Even if life was messy. Food has always been my love language, and I hope they remember the smell of something cooking, the way I fussed over plates, and how nobody ever left hungry. I hope they remember walking through the door and heading straight for the fridge or the cupboards—because they knew Grandma always had something waiting for them.

This is one of those recipes that doesn’t need to be fancy. It’s forgiving, flexible, and better shared. Just like most good things in life.

I hope they remember that I showed up—especially when things weren’t easy.
That I could be relied on to do what I said I was going to do.
That my love was steady, even when life wasn’t.

I hope they remember that I was honest with them about my disease. That I didn’t hide the hard days, but I didn’t make them scary either.

I hope they learned from me that having hurdles to overcome doesn’t mean you’re weak—it means you’re human. That bodies change, plans shift, and life sometimes asks more of us than we expected… and we find a way forward anyway.

I hope they remember that on my hard days—when adversity caused me to question myself—they were some of the very reasons I chose joy. That their laughter, their questions, their simple presence reminded me that joy isn’t the absence of struggle, but the decision to keep going in spite of it.

I want them to remember that I listened. Really listened. That they could tell me things without fear of being judged or rushed. That I took their worries seriously—even the ones that felt small to the rest of the world.

I hope they remember that I was far from perfect. That I got things wrong sometimes. That I said sorry when I needed to, and kept learning even as the years added up.

But I hope they also remember that I was honest.
That I told the truth with care.
And that I always did my best to keep their hearts safe.

I want them to remember laughter—the kind that bubbles up unexpectedly. The kind that shows up around kitchen counters, campfires, and beach towels laid out too close together.

I hope they remember that home wasn’t always a place—it was a feeling. A sense of safety. A knowing that they belonged, exactly as they were.

I want them to remember that I loved their parents fiercely. That family mattered to me. That stories were told and retold, memories were held close, and traditions were made not because they were fancy—but because they connected us.

And most of all, I hope they remember that they were deeply, unquestionably loved.

Not for what they achieved.
Not for how well they behaved.
But simply for being who they are.

If they remember that, then I think I’ve done my job.