This was my column in Scroll last weekend. It was one of the only things I've written that didn't get angry letters to the editor!

Last Monday, my grandma passed away at age 89.

Grandparents are often old and they often die. This was no an unusual occurrence, except that it was my first experience with a loved one dying. It's hard to justify my sadness, as I know where Gram has gone. But I am sad, and in quiet moments I let myself be that way without trying to talk myself out of it.

Gram and I were close. Every day for years I would visit her after school on my walk home. We would sit in her house for hours watching Matlock, eating sugar-free ice cream and telling stories. Gram was a great writer and she always praised my schoolwork so lavishly that I was convinced I was a great writer too.

The summer I graduated from high school, Gram and I were both living in Logan. Her sweet tooth had been genetically encrypted in me, so we would go to the Cold Stone Creamery at least once a week. Gram would encourage me to be flirtatious with the workers, though I'm certain I never succeeded. We would sit with empty ice cream bowls for hours, talking and laughing. Gram had a quick wit and indomitable optimism. She could convey her feelings in a glance and gave some of the best advice I've ever received.

The day she died, I sat on her hospital bed holding her warm, satiny hands and rubbing the acrylic fingernails she always had glued on. I thought about her life and my life and the ways they intertwined. I thought about every moment I had spent with her, searching for the thing she would have told me in that moment to make me feel better. I remembered how she always said, "Be good to yourself today" and "Happy face in the morning."

More than the past, Gram's death made me think about the future. I was appointed to writer her obituary, and as I did, I began to think about my own. In the distant future (I hope), I, too, will pass away and perhaps a journalism-studying grandchild will write a column dedicated to my memory. I wonder what it will say.

I'm not so concerned with how and when I will die. I've imagined myself going in some heroic way, jumping in front of a bus to save a child or something like that. But last week I decided I wouldn't mind dying like my Gram, surrounded by the people I love most.

I wonder if my first 20 years have held most of my life's adventure, if the next 80 could be summed up in a few sentences. I wonder if I'll ever write a book, or learn to tango, or see the wonders of the world. I wonder if I'll get married and have kids, and if so, to whom and how many.

The details might be nice to know, but more than those, I wish I could know what will be written of my character.

Will my family describe me as generous, loving and humble, the words we used to describe Gram's personality? Will they sit around my hospital bed listing all the important lessons I taught them through example and wise counsel? Will they laugh until their stomachs hurt over the witty things I said? Will they cry when they know that the time for making memories with me has passed?

I hope I live well enough to deserve the kind of words that we've spoken about Gram. I hope I seize every memory-forming moment I can. I hope my family understands the Plan of Happiness and finds more joy in my passing than sorrow.

Maybe death weighs so heavily because it reminds us of the shortness of life, of the necessity to really live it. Maybe we should not be so afraid of confronting our own mortality if it helps us focus on the important thing. Maybe we are allowed to love and lose so that we learn to open our hearts a little wider, our arms a little sooner and our mouths with a little more love.

I think there will always be a little hole in my heart that Gram used to fill. But even in death, she continues to teach me and demonstrate her love through the selfless gift of her life.