People say smell is a powerful memory trigger. I believe it. I remember the smell of garlic potatoes roasting in the oven on Christmas Eve, and the smell of a Betty Crocker vanilla cake-mix rising as my mom sliced strawberries for my birthday cake. But most of all, I remember the smell of my grandmother. Her clean, yet earthy scent ―a scent so intoxicating to me that I couldn’t seem to get enough. I remember sitting on the front stoop outside our home, clutching her bare arm while I buried my face in her shoulder, sniffing and smelling, over and over. Sounds a little strange, but it comforted me. She smelled like home. As I write this, I feel like crying. You see, like many Greek kids my age, I was raised in large part by my grandmother. It makes letting go so much harder.

And as I try to let go, I remember her hearty yet abrasive laugh. I remember the way she rubbed her eyes with relief after a long day of cooking and cleaning, and let’s face it, chasing us around the house with her slipper because we were inevitably naughty. We actually enjoyed rousing her ire; it added to the fun factor. I remember her strong yet arthritic fingers, with their oversized knuckles, nimbly peeling and slicing potatoes to make French fries―our favorite! I remember walking hand in hand in the open fields behind our home, picking weeds. As a very young girl, I relished picking weeds. But as I grew older, I would spend most of the time complaining that it was too hot, or that I was too tired, or that it was taking too long. Mostly I felt embarrassed. Today, I would give anything to be back on that field for just a minute, picking weeds with my Yiayia.

We laughed a lot with Yiayia. Sometimes we laughed at her. Yiayia had a love-hate relationship with the TV remote control. When she pressed the right buttons, it was her best friend, but when she didn’t, the cursing would start―and our laughter ensued. “Ma, ma, ma, yia ti then doulevi? Tha to spaso!” (translation; “Why doesn’t it work? I’m going to break it!”). By age 11, Yiayia and her famous padofla (slipper) no longer posed a threat because I towered over her 4’10 inch frame.

Come to think of it, few of my childhood memories don’t involve Yiayia. It was her face that greeted me after school. Her hands that wiped my tears when I cried. Her bare feet that curled up next to mine on the couch as we watched the Price is Right on my days off from school. It was her voice that called us for lunch, and sometimes for supper on nights my parents worked late.

I’m very lucky. I not only knew my grandmother, I LIVED her. In Greek we say, tin ezeisa.

In March of 2013, Yiayia suddenly started acting strange. We thought perhaps it was just old age, or dementia, or worse. By April, we were frantic. This was a woman who never took a pill in her life. No cholesterol, no blood pressure, no aspirin, nothing. Both her body and her mind were agile as a cat. In fact, she often kicked my butt at chess (maybe that’s why I don’t care much for the game to this day). But by late spring, we had come to terms with reality; It was the beginning of the end. Two brain tumors the size of golf balls were squeezing her brain.

I said goodbye to Yiayia in June. At that time, she was very weak, but still coherent. We spent three days holding hands, and just looking at each other. I wanted to memorize every line on her face, every crinkle around her eyes.

As a child, I tried my best to pray every night before bed. I felt like something bad would happen if I didn’t. Aside from praying now and then, or just muttering a few words of thanks after my children were born, I didn’t invest much time in praying. Could God be punishing me? No matter what you believe, or don’t believe, there’s something about illness that humbles you—that brings you to your knees, so to speak. It’s like your soul is stripped naked for all to see. We have close friends who’ve lost loved ones to cancer. But this was my family’s first encounter with the disease. I finally understood their pain. I don’t know what’s worse, cancer, or all the poking, prodding, drugs, or side-effects that go along with it.

They say that at the end, feelings of regret creep up. My only regret is that I didn’t hold her more – that before she fell sick, I didn’t tell her everyday how much I loved her. I assumed she knew. I assumed she knew. This is my point; never assume that people know how much you love them. After you read this, call your grandmother, or your grandfather, or you mother, or your father, or your brother, or anyone you really love, and tell them. Tell them before it’s too late.

Nowadays, I say my prayers almost every night. And every night, they end with the same words because I know that wherever she is, she can hear me. I love you Yiayia.