Sitting With Rosie (63/90)

I spent a little over an hour sitting with my grandmother last night.

I didn't call before I dropped by, and when I got to her door she looked a little confused.

"What are you doing out? Don't you know the games are on," she asked.

She's a basketball fanatic, you see. It's always a talking point with her, no matter who you are or where your interests lie.

I admitted that I haven't been keeping up with the games. She giggled and shook her head as she hugged me and welcomed me in.

We sat chatting in the kitchen for a few minutes before she turned the Butler vs. Michigan State game back on.

In between catching me up on what's going on with everyone in the family she pointed out which players were exceptionally cute.

"He's good looking Tiffy, don't you think," she'd ask.

Most of the time I'd agree that the player was, indeed, good looking. Sometimes I'd really agree, lose my train of thought, and we'd sit just watching until she filled the silence with something new.

"Have you been cooking a lot," she asked concernedly.

"I hate to admit that I have been eating almost all of my meals at school," I told her, deciding against making a joke about the weight I've gained. But adding that I have salads for lunch most days.

She went on to tell me that I could make my own salads for a week with what I pay for my daily salad at school, to eat lots of small meals and not after seven.

We continued talking about the family and then a little about Oscar De La Renta and Whoppi Goldberg before I told her I should get going, that I had plans to get my eyebrows done. She asked me for details and cringed when I told her of the threading process.

"I don't want any of that done to me when I die," she said. "No plucking, none of that."

"Grandma," I said, my voice high-pitched and anxious.

I'm going to tell the girls, [my mother and two aunts] when I go to see them in May that I don't want any of that stuff done, she said.

I can't stand to hear anyone that I love talk about death, not even jokingly. Especially not my vibrant 70-year-old grandmother, who spends her evenings yelling at the TV screen, actively watching her games.

She stood and hugged me again as I headed slowly toward the door.

"So you can tell them if they try that I don't want any of that," she said again.

She was giggling again by the time that we reached the door, seeing me out the same way she'd welcomed me in. When I got to my car, I'd decided that I wanted to stay, but I went on anyway, my heart filled with a dull ache.