The Gift of Simple Love: Remembering My Mimi

There are people in our lives who act as anchors, steady points of light that guide us through our storms. They are the ones who offer a brand of unconditional love so pure it feels like a physical gift. For me, that person was my grandmother, my beloved Mimi.

She was more than just a grandmother; she was like a second mother, an essential piece of my foundation. Mimi was a child of the Depression, and the lessons of those lean years shaped her into one of the most generous and simply contented people I have ever known. She learned how to be a survivor during those years of the depression and later on, became a survivor of colon cancer. Her life wasn't about accumulation; it was about presence and grace.

The Anchor in the Storm

When I went off to college, my world felt very wobbly. My parents, brother, and sister were living overseas, and I didn’t have much of a support system nearby—except for Mimi. Her home, only a few hours from campus, became my sanctuary. Walking through her door was like shedding a heavy cloak. I felt instantly whole and seen and valued.

She loved it when I visited, and her excitement often manifested in the most practical ways. "I’ve been waiting for you, Shug,” using the sweet nickname for "sugar" she'd bestowed on me. “I knew you would have a lot of laundry, so I just bought all new washing detergent.” Eventually, I'd fall into a deep, restful sleep, and by the time I woke up, she'd already washed and folded every last thing. That simple act—laundry done—was a tangible expression of her boundless, tireless care.

Humor, Popcorn, and Connection

Mimi possessed a wonderfully accidental humor. She’d say things that were entirely sincere but hilariously obvious, like, “I haven’t seen you since the last time I saw you.” Her warmth was infectious, and her company was the best kind of easy. We spent hours together, sharing bowls of popcorn—the kind in the big, tricolored tin I'd buy her at Christmas. "I just can't help myself, these are so good," she’d confess as she reached for yet another handful.

Our favorite ritual was watching I Love Lucy. The familiar, joyful chaos of Lucy and Ethel’s antics filled her living room, and for those moments, the world outside faded away. These were the simple, powerful gifts of her time: shared laughter, comfortable silence, and the unwavering assurance that I belonged.

The Permission to Be Ourselves

Mimi never asked me to be anything other than exactly who I was. Her own simple authenticity—living her life in a quiet, generous, and funny way—gave me permission to be myself. I didn’t have to perform or impress. I just had to show up. That, perhaps, is the most precious gift anyone can give you: the space to shed your armor and simply exist.

I miss her so much every day. Now, when I sleep, I cover myself with a quilt that used to be hers. As I pull it up to my chin at night, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. In that soft, familiar fabric, I feel a profound closeness to her. It’s a physical reminder that while she is no longer here, the love she gave me—the unconditional, life-altering, anchor-in-the-storm love—is woven irrevocably into the fabric of my own life.

©Lisa King, MS, LPC, NCC