The few times I do remember visiting them, it wasn’t all that fun. It’s not that I didn’t like Gram and Grandpa. It was just that their fancy furniture, white carpeting, and breakables on every end table meant a lot “sitting still” and “being good.” I don’t think any kid would think that was fantastically fun.

So, we really weren’t all that close.

But that wasn’t the only thing dampening my eagerness. I had a sneaking suspicion that this Sunny Sandy Shores Condominium Complex where Gram had moved was one of those senior citizen communities I’d seen advertised on TV that showed all kinds of old people playing cards and wandering on walking paths, smiling and laughing with each other.

So, I’ve kind of been being a brat about the trip, whining and complaining. All the while, Mom continues spreading her positive, optimistic attitude all over the place.

“Most people would love to be going to Florida for a couple weeks,” she says smiling.

“Not if you’re going to an old people’s home,” I say back.

To spy on your grandma, I want to say, but don’t.

“I bet you’ll end up having the time of your life!” Mom continues in that overexaggerated cheerful voice.

You know the voice I’m talking about, right? That always-see-the-glass-half-full voice.

Then I say, “If spending time at an old people’s home is the time of my life, I should just crawl under the nearest rock, curl up, and die right now to save myself the misery.”

I know this is a little dramatic, even for me, so I’m not surprised when Mom uses her I’m-at-the-end-of-my-rope voice to say, “Samantha, stop being so dramatic!”

Then she adds matter-of-factly, with very little cheerfulness left in her voice, “And I’ve told you a million times, Sunny Sandy Shores is not an old people’s home. It’s just a regular condominium complex.”

“What do you wanna bet all the people are gonna be old?” I say, pushing my luck, knowing full well that I’ve likely just gotten on Mom’s last nerve.

Then she glares at me with that you’re-tipping-over-my-half-full-glass look. And I know to put a lid on it before that glass of hers tips all the way over and breaks.

You’re all grown up now, but does she still give you that look sometimes?

I sure hope, by the time you read this letter, you’re old enough to give Mom that same look right back without getting into trouble.

Love,

Me

Dear Me,

Do you remember much about sixth grade?

Well, just in case your memory is failing a little, I think it’s important to remind you of a few details.