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Whenever this time of year rolls around, I think of my Grams.

Back when my Grams, Mother of my Father, still drove around the brownish-gold Toyota Cressida (the same car my parents bought when I was born), she'd drive out to our cabin and add her own personal touch. We always knew she had been there because some odd knickknack from the dollar store or borrowed from one of her various collections would be making itself at home on a bookshelf or table when we arrived.

One time on the wall, she hung a family photo collage, housed in a wooden frame shaped into the word family. Each empty space around the letters, she filled with photos of my sister and I's dance competitions, our old green boat, or the staged family photos.

Sometimes she'd bring an elephant figurine. My Grandfather was in the army in WWII, stationed in India. He left the States when my Grandmother was pregnant with my Father. They had been married maybe six months. Ernie, my Grandfather, collected elephants during his army duty. This was when when ivory was still legally bought and sold. We'd find these elephants alongside our movie collection of Little Mermaid, Apollo 13 and Mrs. Doubtfire.

When spring rolled around each year at our cabin, flowers would sprout up in unexpected places. Beneath trees. Near the propane tank. Alongside the entryway. And on the side of the cabin. We never knew what to expect come spring; it was Grams' way of surprising us and reminding us she had been there.

Now she's victim to dementia and quickly losing grasp of her history. She's 92. Still four feet and eight inches high with a kind heart. It's long since the gold Toyota was sold to some teenager looking for a first car.

My Pops takes care of her, makes sure she hangs onto her hearing aids and washes her clothes, helps her bathe. The rolls have reversed. Pops plays parent. Grams plays child.

I miss the random knicknacks and flowers.