I love this photo. I was flipping through the pictures on my phone last night and noticed it. Then I realized it’s from the Last Outing with Grandma, when we went to the Ritz for afternoon tea.

That was February 7. She died two weeks later. Now it’s almost April. It hasn’t been long, not at all. I check the mail, and dread giving Ray the condolence card or two that are still coming almost every day. Sometimes he’ll rip a card open right away, but usually it sits around for days.

The other night my father in law came over for dinner. He stayed for hours. Her name never came up.

There was no service, memorial, no obituary. We’re still talking about planting a tree, just the four of us. I want to do some research, to make sure it won’t die. But we need to do it soon, before it gets too hot.

I don’t know how the girls will react to the tree planting. I haven’t heard Annabelle mention Grandma in weeks, though I know my mom got her to talk about her a while ago. I’ve tried. Nothing.

Sophie, on the other hand, loves to talk about Grandma. Which, in this climate, makes things awkward, and beyond our house, a little embarrassing.

The other night we we were at a dinner party with a few families we knew and a few we didn’t. I introduced Sophie to a younger, kidless guy I know only vaguely. He’d never met Sophie. 

Amy: “Sophie, this is Aaron.”

Aaron: “Hi Sophie!”

Sophie: “My grandma died.”

Ms. X reports that Sophie’s talking more and more about Grandma. I know some of it is for shock value, and some of it is simply because it’s a conversation topic and Sophie’s always looking for conversation topics — ways in on the game or the joke or even just the chat.

Last week she stopped Annabelle in the hallway and practically yelled, out of the blue, “Grandma died!” She didn’t get what she was looking for. Annabelle gave her sister a dirty look and walked away.

I do think that maybe it’s starting to sink in — for Sophie, at least. (The rest of us, the less healthy members of the household, not so much.) The other night Sophie woke up sobbing and I picked her and asked if she’d had a bad dream. Yes, she told me. About Grandma.

“Grandma died,” Sophie said a couple days ago, as I helped her get dressed. “I miss her.”

The second part was new. I know, I told her, I miss Grandma too, and I gave her a hug. We talked about the things we loved about Grandma — that she always had chocolate at her house, that she loved to play. Sophie pointed to herself. “Yes,” I told her. “She loved Sophie so much!”

Pretty soon — way too soon, by our society’s standards — Sophie was giggling like mad.

I was a little jealous.

The last time I used a sewing machine was, I believe, in junior high. It didn’t go well. I did okay with the cinnamon rolls made out of Pilsbury pop and fresh dough, but the sewing portion of Home Ec just wasn’t for me.

That’s going to change. Soon, sewing will be for me — rather, for Annabelle. (And Sophie, if she’s interested.)

The sewing machine arrived last night. I think it would take me forever to clear out a loved one’s things, but I guess it’s been cathartic for my father in law, who brought over several items last night when he came for dinner: a Kokopelli-printed tote bag, a brand-new leather purse and a half-gone container of bath beads (for me); a Minnie Mouse watch (for Sophie); and the following, among other things, for Annabelle: the digital camera he’d just given my mother in law for Christmas (that made Ray really sad); the pearl/crystal crown she wore on her wedding day, covered in Saran Wrap with the bobby pins still attached (that made me really sad); and her sewing machine.

(That scared the shit out of me.)

Thank goodness for Gilda. I often thank goodness for Gilda. Everyone should have a set of self-described former punk rockers as parents at their kids’ school.

The beauty is that Gilda’s girls happen to be the same ages as my girls. I wish I had the time today to describe to you just how cool this family is, but for now I’ll just have to say that Gilda understands the virtues of (among other things) carnival chalk and sequins and, overall, I’ve never seen a better accessorized family, right down to their black standard poodles.

But it’s not about the trappings, really it’s not, though Gilda understands the value of trappings in a very satisfying way. These are just good people.

And so when Gilda heard that Ray’s mom died and asked what they could do, I said, “Come over.”

She did, and she brought the whole family (minus the poodles) and a huge basket of sewing materials.

Gilda sews. She has a sewing machine and she’s not afraid to use it. To me, that’s really something, since I was so scared of my Kitchen Aid mixer I gave it away. (It took up too much counter space, okay?!)

Last week, Annabelle found a project in a craft book. The kind of project I’d have started with her but never completed — not without my mother in law’s help. Luckily Gilda came over, so not only did the project (purses made out of old jeans and pants, super-easy, a great kid craft – well, it was with Gilda’s help!) get completed, it was done with panache.

By the end of Saturday night, each of the four girls had a purse she’d decorated, and Gilda had promised to teach us how to use the sewing machine I didn’t expect would arrive quite so soon.

I’m going to have to shore up my sequin supply.