A few weeks ago my dad sent me a package containing a beautiful quilt handmade by his mother, my grandmother, who died of cancer when I was 2 years old. The note enclosed said that, upon learning of her impending death, she wanted to make something for her grandchildren to remember her by. Somehow this blanket got buried in storage and is just now resurfacing and making its way to me.
When I was old enough to be aware of the circumstances around her death, I remember thinking "at least my dad was a grown up when she died," as if that made is less difficult. Now, here I am just a few years older than he was with kids about the same age that I was, and I realize how much I still rely on my parents. I call them to ask advice, to share stories, or just to say hi. I still value their opinions, appreciate their encouragement and support, and enjoy their company. So at almost 33 years old, I still need my parents, and I am so thankful that I have them in my life.
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