We all know the pain and the frustration associated with losing something. Can't find your keys and you want to rip your hair out. Can't find your shoes and you're convinced you have to walk barefoot for the rest of your life. But when you lose a loved one, it's a little different.

Lots of people can say they've had a grandma, but I'm lucky enough to say that I had a Susu. Yes, in this sense, grandma and Susu are synonyms, but, in my Susu's eyes they were complete opposites. Grandmas were old and old is something Susu would never be.

My Susu was spunky. She was feisty. She was a hoot. She was a bargain hunter, but always looked like Beyonce in her three dollar sweaters. She was a lady, but could burp like a man. She was a coffee addict, a lipstick addict and the culprit of every lipstick stained coffee mug. She signed everything with hugs and kisses (XOXO). She let us grandchildren make wishes by throwing pennies out the sunroof. Her nails were always painted, her handwriting always flawless and her dog always hairless.

Yes, my friends, I said hairless. Nothing describes my Susu more than the love she had for her hairless toy poodle, Prissy. Due to it's rather repulsive appearance, it was always dressed to the ca-nines (sorry, I had to). Sometimes it would look at me as if it were going to eat me, but I have to give that dog credit -- it worked its way higher in the will than I think I ever could have.

With Susu there was always an adventure to be had. Whenever I'd get dropped off at her house, she'd be sitting on her front steps watching through the glass door until I would arrive. She'd have at least one good junk food sitting out on the table that mom would never let me have.

Wherever I wanted to go, whatever I wanted to do, she was willing to go and do too. The craft store was my heaven as a child and she was always willing to spend hours on end with me as I looked, touched and envisioned every possible thing I could make.

It was at Susu's house that I learned to burp, how to braid, how to binge watch hours of movies and TV, how to dive off of the diving board, how to take the best walks and how to fail miserably at knowing the name of any flower.

Losing my Susu wasn't easy. Just like losing your keys or your shoes, it was both painful and frustrating, but like I said earlier, it's a different kind of pain and frustration.

Those who have made great impacts on us in our lives occupy a large place in our hearts. When we lose them, it's difficult not to feel a void, or a sense of emptiness.

However, isn't it such a tremendous thing to feel this emptiness? It means that we have been so blessed in our lives to have had someone who made us into who we are today.

By no means is death an easy thing to deal with, let alone comprehend. Rather, death is a beautiful mystery that puts life into perspective. It reminds us of how precious each moment is and how we can impact the lives of everyone we encounter.

My Susu did just that. She made an impact with her smile, her warm heart, her endless support and both her inner and outer beauty.

Anytime one of those fond little Susu memories comes back to me, I can't help but smile and laugh and know how blessed I was to have a lady who made my life so incredible.

Susu, you might be the most accurate depiction of a golf ball head on a Tee, but we all love you despite your abnormally skinny neck and large head.

Can't wait to see you back up in the clouds someday, but right now Elvis is waiting for you!

Love you Susu, XOXO,

Maggie