Entering into this new year I have a thought: we only ever know what we had once we lose it; or, rather, we only ever know what we have when we begin to lose it.

This is really the first time I have experienced regret. Sure, I have said and done things I wish I could change, but in the end I simply have to learn from my mistakes and hope to do better next time.

There isn't a next time for this, however.

Grandparents are a wonderful blessing if you are lucky enough to have them. I have been lucky all my life, and I believe I took it for granted.

Now my grandfather does not recognize me when I walk in the room, and I realize that I don't have the chance to know him better. It empties me out in a way I can't really express.

As I carry on with my life, gathering and creating stories that will live on in my bones, I remember that my grandparents have 86 and 89 years worth of stories inside of them that I will never know. And it pains me to realize that. It hurts me deeply to realize that I haven't taken the time I should have to get to know them. I love them so much and I wish I knew them better.

These are things I'll always know: My grandma loves angels and my granddaddy loves music. She loved to quilt and he to read. She was (and is, to the extent that she can be) always put together. Nothing was ever out of place. He was quiet and patient. Her eyes are the loveliest shade of blue. His laugh is like sunshine. Her smile is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

As they have moved into assisted living we have taken in their things to split between the relatives. There's not much I have room for, but I kept a decorative rose. Out of all the things she owned, she probably cares about that rose the least. But now as I look at it I always think of her – a small thing, perhaps a little thorny sometimes, but completely beautiful.

I also kept the 100^th Anniversary Edition of the Victor Borge Classic Collection. My grandfather introduced me to Victor Borge when I was eleven or twelve. I treasure that collection because I think his humor is magnificent and his music lovely. More importantly, I treasure the time I spent laughing and listening with my grandfather. I hope granddaddy remembers watching them with me.

I firmly believe that you can learn something from every person you meet. I know I have been slowly learning things from my grandparents all my life, like what it really means to be brave, to love and forgive, to be patient and kind.

My grandma has taught me the art of of love. She has sacrificed herself every day of her life for the people she loves. She spares not a thought for herself, only others. In every moment she is constantly thinking of how to help us. And sometimes she showed that love in small ways, by simply cooking dinner and cleaning up after us, or always being willing to give up her seat or play silly games.

Granddaddy taught me the art of listening. Of really hearing in the quiet moments. We would sit on the porch together, listen to the birds and the trees and the sunshine. And he would listen to everyone about anything. He would listen to me tell wild tales and sing off-key and talk about nothing – he was kind enough to let me.

I wrote him a poem once and I found it the other day. As I read it I realized how much those quiet moments on the porch meant to me. I also realized how much those little acts of kindness grandma gave meant to me. I want to be like them – I want to listen as well as granddaddy did, to love as well as grandma does.

I don't know how much time I have left with them; I hope I use it well. This is a strange sort of ache, filled with love and fear, and I am working my way slowly through it, in the quiet moments, as I struggle to love better than I do.

I am very thankful for my grandparents, for their love. I hope they know how much I love them.