Warm is not a word I would use to describe my grandma. She's loving and kind, yes, but not warm. She's reserved. Back when she sent birthday cards and Christmas cards, before her hand got too shaky to write, she would always end with "Love, Grandma" but I don't recall her ever telling me she loved me. My grandma is tough-as-nails and I love her for unapologetically being who she is.
I didn't get to see Grandma over Christmas (the old folks' home frowns on visitors with communicable diseases.) This weekend I'm going to take her a box of chocolates (her favourite gift because a: it's not stupid crap that clutters up her room and b: it's chocolate) and wish her a happy 95th birthday. We'll drinking sickly sweet flavoured coffee out of her paper-thin mugs decorated with roses, she'll call me dear, and I'll try to remember to talk into her good ear.
Happy birthday, Gram. Love, Hillary.