It was four years, six months, three weeks, two days ago and counting: June 12, 2001 . I'll never forget it-the words I said, the feelings I felt, the actions I made. I have never regretted anything so much.

I was in sixth grade at a year-round school, so we didn't get the summers off. I liked it that way, just because it was the only thing I ever knew. Three months of school, one month vacation, three months of school, one month of vacation. I was obsessed with consistency and completely averse to change (and still am today). That's why I was so angry that morning. I had to make a change in routine, a change in my before-school ritual of finding a shiny ribbon to match the lace on my socks, applying a layer of glitter on my delicate, young skin, and scrounging around for a different lip gloss (because God forbid I take the same one two days in a row). I woke up late and I was angry. My young, developing hormones were just begging for a reason to throw a fit.

And that's when it happened: the phone call that I would never forget.

I had ten minutes to get up and get ready for school, then to scamper off across the street so the neighbor (who happened to be my cousin) could give my little brother and I a ride to school.

"Why didn't you wake me up, you stupid brat?!" I yell at my brother, a fourth grader at the time, who was sitting on the couch watching the Magic School Bus . I knew he'd been up since 6:30 to watch Pokemon , just as he is every morning. He glances at me for a split second, then glues his eyes back to Ms. Frizzle and Arnold making their way through the digestive system. This is exactly why I need my parents here in the morning, like normal kids do I think to myself. Both of my parents were gone by 6:00 a.m. for work, and my brother and I were left to wake ourselves up and get ready for school alone. I liked the feeling of independence-until I needed someone to blame, of course.

Then I hear it. The ring ring of the phone.

I can feel the rage coming-and trust me, I had a lot of it for being so young. I've definitely had my share of temper tantrums in my lifetime, and I'm sure of many more to come. But why, of all mornings, did I have to wake up late on June 12 th, 2001?

I look at the caller ID.

I'm angry. Getting easily annoyed is in my blood, mostly from my dad. Any little thing will set him off-someone misplacing his screwdriver, one of us accidentally hanging a dirty sweater in his closet, playing a bad game of golf. I get it from him-the anger I mean, not my high golf handicap. I can blame my anger on him.

It's a long distance number from Visalia , my uncle's house.

My aunt was pregnant at the time with her fourth child. She is my mom's brother's wife. Her first child was six at the time. She lost her second daughter, Brittany, at the age of three months, due to a rare disease called Smith Lemli Opitz Syndrom. She had a hole in the top of her mouth, she ate through a tube in her stomach, and she had other tubes everywhere. You couldn't ever carry her around because she had to stay connected to the machines. The morning of her death, my uncle said she opened her eyes all the way and smiled for the first time in her life.

"Hello," I say rudely as I try to tie my shoe. It's my grandmother, just as I had expected.

My grandmother, Lilly Marie Bennett, was staying in Visalia at the time, because after my aunt and uncle lost their third child at birth, (her umbilical cord got wrapped around her neck during delivery) my grandma wanted to be there to support them, hoping she wouldn't have to lose another grandchild. She'd been there for a few weeks already, so it'd been a while since I had seen her or talked to her. I still don't understand why it had to work out that way.

"Good morning Sweet Pea," she says gently, kindly, lovingly as always.

She had so many pet names for me. Sweet pea was the one she used most often. My grandmother was a strong woman. Her husband died in a car crash in 1973, and she was left to raise her four children alone, as well as a nephew. Sure, they struggled financially-they had a two bedroom house for six people, they had to share clothing, didn't have a lot of extra cash for luxury items. My grandma worked hard for what she had, even if what she had wasn't very much. In the end, I think it made my mom, aunt, and uncles strong.

I roll my eyes. "What do you want? You know I have to be at school soon."

"Tomorrow is Jasmine's birthday," she says, as I glance anxiously over at the clock. She'd better make this fast, I think to myself.

Jasmine is my little cousin who lives across the street from me. Her mom is the one who gives me a ride to school every morning. They had recently got their phone disconnected, so they had been coming to our house to use ours.

"Make sure you go across the street and get her in the morning and have her call me so I can wish her a happy birthday," she tells me. Why couldn't we talk about this after school? I think to myself.

I hear my cousin's squeaky screen door slam shut. I'm getting more annoyed. I have to go.

"Is that all you want? Can I go now? I have to go to school."

I look out the window and see them walking towards the driveway, my cousin holding her purse, her daughter holding her lunchbox. I'm getting more annoyed. I have to go.

"Okay, sweetie," she says. "I'll call you and remind you in the morning."

I hear the car start. I'm getting more annoyed. I have to go.

"Okay, whatever, "I say, hardly hearing her as I scrounge around looking for the other shoe.

I can hear my cousin honk the horn across the street. I'm getting more annoyed, I have to go.

"I love you Sweet Pea," she says, as I slam down the receiver, and I slam it hard.

At the time, it felt good. Really good. I yell at my brother and we run across the street, get in the car, and get to school. Not a minute too late.

That night, I make sure my alarm clock is set and the volume is all the way up. I pull the warm, cotton blanket up to my neck and stare ate the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. There are green ones, yellow ones, blue ones, small ones, big ones. One of them, the big pink one, says "Marie" on it. I stare at her name and feel guilty for being so rude. That was the first time I didn't tell her that I loved her. I'll apologize to her when she calls me in the morning, I think to myself and drift off into sleep. I didn't know that that was the last full night of sleep I'd have in months.

The next morning I wake up on time. After putting on my glitter and my ribbon and picking out my favorite strawberry kiwi lip gloss I get across the street early. My cousin tells me, "Don't forget to tell Jasmine happy birthday."

"Oh yeah." I say. I had forgotten, and apparently, so had my grandma.

Lunch rolls around and as the student counsel president and I head to the office to remind the principal of our meeting, I see my dad walking up the corridor. He had come in through the wrong entrance, and I see him walking across campus towards my classroom. Doesn't he know he's supposed to get a "visitor" sticker from the office? I think to myself. I wave at him and feel proud that he gets to see me being in charge-a big bad sixth grader on her way to talk to the principal. He walks up to me.

"Dad, what are you-" he puts his hands on my shoulders, and it startles me. His sunglasses are on, but I know he's looking me in the eyes.

"I love you," he whispers, and walks into my classroom.

Being very confused at this time, I forget about my meeting with the principal and follow my father into the classroom. He walks to Mrs. Williford's desk in the far corner of the room and they talk in low, serious, adult-like tones. She puts her hand over her mouth and makes eye contact with me from across the room. What in the world is going on? I think to myself.

He walks back in my direction and out the door. He doesn't tell me to follow him, I just know I'm supposed to. We go to my brother's classroom, but it's not lunch for him. Fourth graders have lunch an hour earlier, so their class is in session. The clamor of activity stops as my father walks in and talks to his teacher. Her reaction was the same. The hand over the mouth. The immediate eye contact with my brother, then with me. She pats my dad's back and he tells Jeremy to come with him. We follow him out to our silver Toyota Tundra. My confusion is still there, and increasing. Is it my mom? Did she get in a crash on the way to her business meeting in Los Angeles this morning? Did he get fired? Did our house burn down?

Before I can open my own mouth to ask, those horrifying words slip from my father's.

"Grandma Marie didn't wake up this morning."

Shock. Immediate shock. Like ice cold water just slapped me in the face-then more confusion. Did she have a heart attack? Is she in the hospital? Is she in a coma? I don't hear anything anymore. Not the cars that are speeding down the street, even though it's a school zone. Not the shrieks and screams of the children on the playground. I don't need to ask any more questions. I know. I know she is never waking up again.

I don't remember getting into the truck, or putting on my seatbelt, or the drive to my mom's work in Bakersfield, or the four hours we waited for her to drive home for LA. I don't remember a lot of things that happened in the next few days, it's a blur.

But I will always remember her silver hair (never gray) and our cheese, salami, pickles and cracker snacks. I will always remember the nights of watching the Sound of Music, and the specific way she folded the top seam of her bed sheet over, and the way she drew a heart smiley face on the top of each crossword puzzle she finished. I'll always remember how she pinned her soft hair up with a gold barrette, and how she dipped her popcorn in melted butter, and how the sweet scent of vanilla always lingered on her beautiful, delicate skin.

And I will always remember the last words.

I will always remember not saying, "I love you too, Grandma Marie."