She was the platonic ideal of grandmother, the one true grandmother against which we measure all others. She was a beacon of The Way Things Were Supposed to Be. She made casseroles and jello salad and apple pie. She labeled things. She saved scraps. She came to every play and every recital. She was solid and soft, blue-eyed and rosy. She never gave up trying to convince me to stop biting my nails.

I did not see her or talk to her yesterday, and I won't today, either. I didn't ever expect to. She is not missing, not right now. She will be missing in San Diego, and I will be aware of her absence. But Iowa is untouched. It is so far away.