Phone call to heaven

Today I’ve been thinking about how much I miss my Yiayia (grandma).   We were close since I was a toddler and I called her at 4:00 pm each day after school.  She lived in Massachusetts and I grew up in Philadelphia, but we visited her constantly.  I remember  every few months my mom would wake us up and we’d hop in the car and drive the five hours to her house.  We’d only stay the weekend, but each trip seemed like a magical adventure.   My grandma and I would cook her special recipes, we’d play in the yard and she’d teach me how to turn curtains into dresses using her sewing machine.   She’d teach me Greek with her old yellow-paged children’s books from the 50’s and tell me stories in her native language.    Every time I visited she’d make my favorite Greek pastries (baklava, kourabiedes and floyeres) .   I remember the smell of her perfume, the feeling of embracing her tiny 4 ft 11 frame in my arms and the sight of her reading in every spare minute.   She taught me how to build a snow man, how to cook, how to nurture and the meaning of true love.    Sometimes I reach for the phone to call her, but then I realize she’s already with me.