Which was two days after she died.
I should be more precise.
Six days after she had a stroke that devastated her brain to the point that she had no measurable neurological responses to pain, light in her eyes, a voice at her ear. Four days since I left my home in upstate New York, three days after I arrived in Indiana. (It took one taxi, two buses, two planes, and 17 total hours).
Two days after we took my 93 year-old grandmother off of life support, a post office in Miami postmarked a birthday card she'd forgotten to send me. Someone--her renter? my uncle?--had dropped it in the mail.
Two days after I watched her body stop, her cursive hand moved through time and space to reach me.
It reads: "Happy birthday. I can't tell you this in person. But I will be with you all day."