We always had ice cream when we were together, served in Royal Doulton dishes with faded gold trim. Her favorite was peppermint, and she had some almost every day, but as a tiny woman she indulged her sweet tooth only one scoop at a time.

I had established a tradition of visiting twice a year, flying down for Mother's Day in May and again for her birthday in October. Well, that was how it happened to work out, but the timing was driven by the season - in spring, after the snowbirds left but before the weather turned too hot for my northern blood to stand, and in fall, before the snowbirds returned. She hated the mass influx of those northerners who couldn't bear their northern winters, and although she herself had moved from Pittsburgh when she retired, she'd outlasted the statute of limitations by staying on through the oppressive summer heat for nearly twenty years.

In Pittsburgh, she had worked for Mellon Bank and lived as the middle of a three-generation home: her mother, herself, her daughter, three women spanning half a century. She had divorced her husband in 1945, when it was neither fashionable nor socially acceptable to be a single mother, because she never lost sight of her duty to her child and the man had not been enough of a father to keep around.

The tradition of ice cream was born early in this family. On Saturdays she would take her daughter, my mother, to a movie, stopping afterwards for dessert on the way home. Money was tight, so often they had plain vanilla scoops, but sometimes she splurged on hot fudge topping - ten cents extra. Mom raised us in the same tradition, considering ice cream a staple alongside milk and bread.

When Gran'ma turned 65, she retired from Mellon and bought a duplex in Sun City, the first home she'd ever owned. She had never been to Sun City before, but a woman she trusted liked it, and that was enough for her. Two months later, she went to lunch with the widower of her friend's sister, her first date in forty years. They were married six months later, and she put her duplex up for sale and moved into her new husband's home in Bradenton. They grew pineapples in the backyard, and had a lush garden of hibiscus, palm trees, and seasonal flowers. They went to the symphony and the theatre, played bridge, and traveled; and they each enjoyed a scoop of ice cream in the evening.

But she had lived in small places her whole life, and the big house never felt like home. The house was spectacular, but something always needed tending; and when her husband was away, the noises of the house spooked her. The first wife, too, seemed to linger, her furniture and dishes a constant reminder that it was her house, really, not Gran'ma's. When Granddad agreed to move, she was elated, and he was elated to see her so.

They bought an apartment in a new retirement village. The village boasted several dining rooms, shuttle service for shopping and entertainment, a swimming pool, lovely grounds to walk, and a full-care nursing facility - a lovely place to grow old, they said, and grow old they did. When Granddad passed away nine years later, Gran'ma stayed on, volunteering at the hospital and playing golf to fill her days. She shopped and read and worked word puzzles; went to shows, museums, and art exhibits; hosted and attended parties throughout the years; played Scrabble and Yahtzee! with friends after dinner. She went to the Ringling Museum of Art on Sundays, when it was free, because she had learned as a single mother to take advantage of such treats.

She continued to dress for dinner every day, stylish pant suits with matching accessories, always a handbag, always a spritz of perfume. The scent of her perfume lingered in every nook of the apartment, on everything she touched, so that it was impossible to smell that perfume without thinking immediately of her.

But nothing brought her joy as great as her family. Her daughter had married and given her four grandchildren, and they -- we -- took precedence over all else in her life. Volunteer work suspended, parties cancelled, extra tickets bought to take us with her to the symphony or theatre, days at the beach planned for our enjoyment. We grandkids knew that, in her eyes, we could do no wrong: she loved and cherished us no matter what. To spend a week with Gran'ma was to spend a week bathed in love and acceptance. Our mother and we shared every confidence with her, went to her for advice and guidance, showered her in return with all the love we had to give. When friends would say their own grandmothers looked funny, or acted funny, or smelled funny, we didn't understand - ours was a precious gem, and the only thing funny about her was the twinkle in her eyes when she laughed. When one of us got to visit her, the others would call so as not to be left out, and ask for play-by-play recounts of what transpired so we all felt we'd been there, too. We were not selfish about her, but shared the joy of her freely, understanding the sense of loss when it was someone else's turn, not ours, to be with Gran'ma.

Because she was so healthy, exercised daily and ate well, our worlds stopped when she told us she had cancer. But she would not let us be sad: "I'm a tough cookie!", she exclaimed. "This too shall pass." She gave us hope, instead of leaning on us, and though we wanted to be her support we were utterly grateful for her selfless grace. She had always been the center of our collective universe, and we could not assimilate this gnawing cancer with the unifying thread of our clan. Her first surgery left her cut in two, an angry twelve-inch scar not quite healed when she had to go in for round two. And still, her bravado was genuine, her concern for us greater than for herself, as it always had been. She would not allow us to be sad on her account. She wanted only to bring joy into our lives, and kept up her fierce struggle, perhaps more for us than her.

I sent her a card in June, telling her I was on my way to surprise her. I sensed the end was near, and felt I had to see her again, to tell her in person how much I loved her, and how of all the people I'd ever known, she was the most vibrant, the most important, the most loved.

She called when she received it. "Dear, I'm very upset," she began. "It's so sweet of you to do this, but I don't want you to see me when I'm sick! I want you to wait until I'm better, and we can have fun together. Please don't be angry with me."

"But I want to see you, Gran'ma," I protested, "and I don't mind that you're sick. I want to take care of you, to read to you, to bring you ice cream…"

I could hear the smile in her voice, but not my tears reflected there. "Dear, I'm afraid I just won't be any fun. I love you for thinking of me, but I'd rather have you visit when I can enjoy you being here. Right now I just don't feel up to company, but I promise to have you when I'm better." She had stalled the cancer for a year after the first surgery, enjoyed a year of remission, and so I believed her. She died two weeks later.

I was angry, more than that - I was hurt, rejected, told by this woman I so cherished that she didn't want to see me. She had denied me the chance to say goodbye, to hold her and kiss her and tell her how much it hurt me to know she hurt, to imagine life without her in it. She had lied to me, said I would see her again when she had known I wouldn't. She had refused me the opportunity to care for her the way she'd always cared for me, to show her I loved her as unconditionally as she'd always loved me. To be her strength when she no longer had her own.

As I wept inconsolably, for weeks stretching into months, the face I saw before me was hers - vibrant, alive…healthy. And in time, I came to realize that she had saved her greatest gift for the end - that I would always remember her, not sick and frail, but strong and full of life, laughing, eyes twinkling under her cloud of wispy grey hair, smelling not of sickness but of perfume. She had not denied me at all; she had denied herself the comfort of my arms, so that I could live the rest of my life remembering her the way she saw I needed to. She had lied to me to save me pain, to protect me. She had refused to allow the image of her that I carry in my heart to become tarnished with disease.

Now my home is filled with her possessions, and when I play my piano or sit at my dining room table, I think of her not with anger, but with overwhelming love. I still cry over her - I'm crying as I write this - but my tears are not for her. They are for me, for my staggering loss, for this amazing woman who no longer calls on Sundays, or waits for May and October when I will arrive. For her, I have only love, respect, and quiet amazement that even in her time of need she put me first. For her I am grateful that she no longer suffers, that she is now at peace.

I think of her every time I scoop ice cream. She did not allow a memorial service - "people stand up and say things that aren't true - 'he was a wonderful man', they say, when we all know he was a perfect beast. I won't allow such pomp and circumstance to surround my passing." The difference is that she truly was a wonderful woman, and deserved to have that acknowledged. Nineteen months after her death, I'm finally getting to say so. She remains the most powerful influence in my life, comforting in my successes, forgiving in my mistakes, always with me. When it's my time to die, I will be proud if I have lived my life half as well as she always gave me credit for, half as well as she lived hers.