Shortly before Grandma C. died she brought out some photo albums I had never seen in my life, though I had spent a lot of time with her. We looked at pictures of her when she was a young, pretty strawberry blonde. Skin cancer had ravaged her face by the time she was old; it’s what took her life. In the pictures she’s wearing costumes and looks like she’s happy to be dancing and singing. I said, “These are such nice photos, Grandma, how come you never showed them to me before? Look at this one of you in a bunny suit.” She said, “Yep. I was always a performer” — without any elaboration. I had never heard her describe herself that way. But of course I knew.

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One crisp fall Saturday my mom and I went to the zoo with her. We didn’t know this would be her last year. I was impressed with the way, at 83, she walked the length of the zoo and back briskly and without wanting to sit down or anything. She never liked old people or being old. As we left the penguin house and came outside to the narrow path leading to the next exhibit, she grabbed me (her 32-year-old grandson) by the hand. She hurriedly pulled me in a half-circle around and past a big, fat, tall woman who was ambling slowly along the path. I understood even before she explained, in a stage whisper laced with disdain: “I didn’t want us to get stuck behind ‘Tiny’ there.”

Pantomiming concern that we really had been in danger of getting stuck, she raised her brow and let her cheeks drop to form the “Swedish stone-face” that I catch myself doing a lot, too. We looked at each other; I noticed anew how piercing her eyes were. She let go of my hand as we climbed a hill and reached a clear place. We both laughed and then turned around to look for my mom.