She looked so small in that hospital bed.
Not exactly fragile—just… quieter than I remembered. The woman who once ran an entire household on little more than black coffee and sharp glances now needed assistance just to sit up. I brought her favorite sparkly slippers, and though she smiled politely, she didn’t reach for them.
“Hi, Grandma,” I said, unsure whether a hug was okay. “It’s me. Mila.”
She blinked slowly, as if she were trying to focus, studying my face through a fog. For a moment, I wondered if she recognized me.
Then she said one word:
“Chickpea.”
That was her nickname for me growing up—no one else knew it, not even my cousins. It was the name she’d call me when we baked cookies or watched black-and-white films on rainy days. “Chickpea, hand me that spoon.” “Chickpea, you’ve got flour on your nose.”
And just like that, I felt like I was ten again.
I sat on the edge of the bed, blinking quickly to keep my tears from showing. She didn’t say much after that, but she didn’t need to.
She knew me.
Despite the machines, the meds, the memory loss they’d warned us about—she held onto that one soft piece of us.
So I stayed a little longer. I read to her from her favorite garden book and held her hand.
As I tucked the blanket around her legs, she whispered:
“Next time, bring the lemon cookies.”
I smiled, wiping away a tear that had slipped down my cheek. The lemon cookies. I hadn’t made them in years, not since I was little. Grandma’s special recipe, the one with just the right amount of zest that made them irresistible.
“Next time,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “I promise.”
It felt strange to leave, but I had to. The doctors had warned us her health was deteriorating rapidly. But in that fleeting moment, I felt like we’d shared something timeless—something more than the sterile room we were in. I felt her, truly, in a way I hadn’t in years. Like all the distance, the years of growing up, had melted away, and I was just Chickpea again.
On the drive home, I thought about the things I could do for her—how I could be there in ways I hadn’t been before. My life had been so busy—chasing work, trying to make a name for myself, managing relationships that often felt like obligations. I had kept her at arm’s length, unintentionally. She always understood, but I could tell it hurt her. We were both stubborn in our own ways.
I hadn’t been the best granddaughter. I hadn’t kept in touch as much as I should have. There were times she’d call, and I’d let it go to voicemail because I was “too busy.” Now, the guilt weighed heavily on me. What if I didn’t have much time left to make up for it?
The next few days were a blur. Work, phone calls, more visits to the hospital. Grandma’s condition seemed to worsen by the hour. The doctors were talking about hospice care, and I could see the toll it was taking on my mom and the rest of the family. But my focus was entirely on her—on Chickpea, and the woman who had shaped so many of my memories.
I made the lemon cookies.
The recipe was tucked away in the same old notebook I’d found years ago, written in her familiar script. The ingredients were simple enough, but it was the small, thoughtful details I hadn’t understood as a child—the right way to zest the lemons, the perfect oven temperature, the special touch of rolling the cookies in powdered sugar while they were still warm.
I spent the whole afternoon baking. As I pulled the golden cookies from the oven, the smell filled my kitchen and took me straight back to childhood. It was as if I were back in that little house, helping Grandma roll out dough, laughing as I spilled flour everywhere, and begging her for just a taste of the batter.
That evening, I went back to the hospital, a small tin of cookies in hand. The familiar smell of antiseptic hit me as soon as I entered, but it didn’t overpower the flood of memories. Grandma was asleep when I arrived, but I set the tin on her bedside table anyway, figuring I could wait.
A nurse came in soon after, checking on her gently. She told me Grandma had been more alert earlier but had drifted back into a deep sleep. I sat there, holding the tin of cookies, unsure of what to do with myself.
Then, just as I was about to leave, I heard a faint voice.
“Mila?”
My heart raced as I rushed to her side. “Grandma, it’s me. I brought the cookies—just like you asked.”
Her eyes opened slowly, but this time there was no fog. She recognized me instantly, and I saw a small spark of joy in her gaze. The same eyes that used to light up when she told me stories about the garden or her secret love of jazz.
“Chickpea,” she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You remembered.”
I nodded, wiping away the tears threatening to fall.
“I did. I remembered.”
She reached out, shaky hands grabbing the tin of cookies. With some effort, she propped herself up in bed, and I helped her eat one. She smiled as she took a bite, her eyes lighting up as if she were tasting something she hadn’t had in years.
I sat beside her, watching her savor the moment. It’s funny how something so simple—a batch of cookies, a shared memory—could turn into something so meaningful.
After a while, Grandma spoke again, her voice softer now.
“Do you remember the garden, Mila? The one we planted together? With the lavender and roses?”
I nodded. “I remember. You always said it was your favorite place.”
She smiled warmly at that. “I always thought I’d die there, surrounded by the flowers I loved so much.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Grandma… don’t say that.”
But she just squeezed my hand. “I’m not afraid anymore. I just want you to remember everything I taught you. About gardening. About life. About love.”
Her words hit me like a wave. I hadn’t realized how much I took her strength and presence for granted over the years. All the time I thought I had—time to say more, to do more—it was running out.
I was losing her, and I hadn’t even known how much I needed her until now.
That night, when I left the hospital, I carried her words with me. The next morning, I went straight to the garden she had always dreamed of—the one that had bloomed year after year thanks to her care. It was a place I hadn’t visited much, lost in the rush of life. But that day, standing among the flowers, I felt her presence more than ever.
I realized she wasn’t just teaching me about plants. She was teaching me patience, how to cherish what truly matters, how to take the time to nourish the things that last.
Grandma passed away quietly a week later, surrounded by family. But before she did, she said one last thing to me: “Don’t forget the lemon cookies, Chickpea.”
And I never will.
After her passing, I found a letter she had written me years ago, tucked in one of her garden books. It wasn’t a farewell letter. It was full of advice—full of hope, full of the things she’d never had the chance to say aloud.
She wrote, “Remember to take time for the things that matter. Family, love, and the quiet moments that make life beautiful. And never forget that you have the power to grow something incredible, just like we did together in the garden.”
Those words became my guiding light. I began to take better care of the people I loved, nurturing relationships that had faded into the background of my busy life. And as I did, I found that my own garden—my life—began to bloom again.
The lesson Grandma taught me wasn’t just about gardening. It was about slowing down, noticing what truly matters, and taking the time to nourish it.
If you have someone you love, take the time to cherish them. Don’t wait for the perfect moment because it might never come. Make those moments count now.
And remember: Life, like a garden, needs care. Don’t forget to tend to it.
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