I started this post on the anniversary of my grandmother’s death, one week before Christmas. I couldn’t finish it. I was moved to try again this weekend as I stood by a dear friend through her own grandmother’s death.

This year I celebrated my 2nd Christmas without my grandma, but I wasn’t sad. Well, not much. Grandma taught me it shouldn’t be that way. Christmas is about family. So are birthdays. While it may have flitted through my mind once when my baby turned two, I couldn’t cry. That was her day. It’s not the big days that get me. It’s the little things.

When I bit into a bell pepper—straight from my very own garden—last summer, it tasted exactly like hers did when I was small. I cried.

When I sat on the sidelines watching my little one play soccer this year, I remembered how Grandma never missed one my own games.

When I watched the cutest little elf on stage at Christmas, I remembered my Grandma would never miss a performance for one of her grandkids.

As I sing in church each week, I remember how much my grandma loved to worship at the top of her voice, even though she couldn’t sing.

When I pierced my nose last week, I could hear exactly what she would say to me, and know without a doubt she would have loved me anyway.

Slowly, the grief is giving way to memories. The sadness fades slightly, but the hole in my heart will always be there. I can think of Grandma now and smile more often than cry. I can look at her pictures and see the love instead of blinking back tears. As time goes on I can focus more on the good times and less on the loss, but I’ll never stop missing my grandma.