Marjorie.

My grandmother, Marjorie, is the pretty young woman sitting on the swing. Next to her father and surrounded by siblings, I can't help but notice how beautiful she is. At age fifteen when this photo was taken, she had already become the surrogate mother to her five younger brothers and sisters - a role thrust upon her by tragic circumstances. To this day, I have never been told the entire story. Within a year of the day this photo was taken, my grandmother married a young soldier and left her family to start her own.

She is wearing lipstick for the photograph. I wonder if she found it among her absent mother's belongings, left behind in her rush to leave. I doubt her father bought it for her. He wasn't the nicest nor most generous of men, so I've heard.

Marjorie is and always has been the kindest, sweetest person I have ever known. I have never heard her say one negative thing about another human being. She always thinks of others before she thinks of herself. She has the most beautiful smile. Her eyes light up whenever she sees me, making me feel that I am as special to her as she is to me. We have always had a close bond - I am her oldest granddaughter and she is my first memory.

I am so grateful to have Marjorie still with me, as I know there are not too many 50-year-olds who still have living grandparents - and I'm lucky to have two. My grandfather is also still living, and he is the second sweetest person I have ever known. An ex-drill sargent and then a brick layer, Dale was a hard man with a soft spot for his grandchildren and an even softer spot for his bride of seventy-three years. At ages 91 and 89 - and still living independently with each other - they are so adorable and so delightful to be around.

Yesterday, my mother called. She is worried about Marjorie. She seems to be slowing down and is getting tired. I've already lost one grandmother to age - I know what "tired" means. It means Marjorie is starting to leave me. I can feel it in my heart. I feel she knows it, too. The last time I saw her, at Christmas, at our goodbyes, she clung to me just a little too tight, just a little too long. It made me hesitate and look deep into her face. I could see through her smile, she was saying goodbye. I hugged her again - just a little too tight, just a little too long. When we separated, we both had tears in our eyes. "I love you so much," I told her. She replied with her standard, "Not nearly as much as I love you."

I'm not ready to let her go. I'm not ready, dammit. But I know when the time comes, I'll have to be.