It’s 10:10 PM and I’m debating for the 6th time today whether or not I should go for that bottle of jack my grandmother kept in the closet.

She didn’t think anyone knew, but I caught her sneaking sips on the days she babysat my brother and I. Looking back, I don’t blame her.

Between the “too serious” pillow fights and arguments over the last bag of potato chips, I would have dipped off for a drink too; but regardless of how much we got on her nerves, grandma always looked happy to see us.

That was until she got sick. One day she was diagnosed with Lukemia and 3 months later she was gone. I’m still bitter my mom didn’t let us go to the hospital to say goodbye the night she died, although I understand why.

Grandma wanted a say in how she was remembered.