My 92-year-old grandmother died this weekend. My family was expecting her to die, and I had prepared my children all week for the inevitable. I had told them how old she was and what a full life she had led. The night before my grandmother died, the boys had sung her songs over the telephone.

And yet when my mother called me with the news, I couldn’t bring myself to tell them. For nearly two hours, I fed the girls breakfast and we played, as I considered different ways I might share the news. When I finally did, Kira, who is nearly 6, nervously smiled.

“Died?” she asked in disbelief. “What does that mean?”

Maybe this was why I had been reluctant to tell them.

I went through the whole story about “old” again and explained that my grandmother’s body had stopped working. Her legs stopped working, and her arms stopped working, and her heart stopped working.

And then I said what I think you’re supposed to say to young children: that Mom Mom was with God. That she was with her husband, Pop Pop, and her sisters, too.

“But Jacob said she’s going in the ground. Is she going in the ground?” Kira asked. Thank you, Jacob.

“When people die, it means their bodies stop working. So we bury their bodies,” I said. “But their spirits live on. Mom Mom’s spirit is still alive and still looking out for you.”

“You mean she can see me?” Kira asked incredulously.

“I hope she can,” I said as honestly as I could.

My boys didn’t need the lecture about being old. They wanted to know what happened at a funeral. They wanted to be there to comfort me, which did, in fact, feel comforting.

Part of me wishes to be able to wholeheartedly believe that my grandmother’s spirit lives on. I want to think that what made her elegant and a tad imperious, opinionated, and the life of the party, is still here. But, to be honest, I simply do not know what I believe.

During my last few visits with my grandmother, it’s fair to say that her body had really given up. Yet she was still alive. She couldn’t move, but her eyes lit up when she saw my baby. I could feel her presence strongly, even as her body was literally disintegrating in front of my eyes.

I do know that my grandmother lives on in each of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. My son, Josh, is repulsed when he is served a heaping portion of food. He likes his food carefully prepared and served in delicate portions — exactly like my grandmother.

My daughter Talia is willowy, unlike any other woman in our family, except my grandmother. She stands with perfect posture, as if a rod were going down her spine, exactly like my grandmother.

Kira is the life of any party, happy to perform on command, singing and dancing for anyone who is willing to watch, exactly like my grandmother.

Jacob lives for a box of Mallomars, the Nabisco creation that unites marshmallows, chocolate, and graham cracker in the same snack. When we visited my grandmother recently, what did Jacob find in her pantry? In just a matter of minutes, Jacob wolfed down a box of Whippets, the Canadian version of Mallomars that you can find year-round, as opposed to the real New York original, which only is sold from October to April. His sweet tooth has one source: my grandmother.

I often marvel at the legacies that my grandmother has left behind in me. When I have an opinion, I’m not shy to give it. My enthusiasm for cooking originated in her kitchen, where in my childhood she taught me to make the basics — French fries, pancakes, and scrambled eggs, drawing the firm eggs from the edges of the pan into the center, before lovingly adding farmers’ cheese right at the very end.

Even as much as we knew the end of my grandmother’s life was coming, it still came as a shock, which is how I know so many people have felt when family members have died, even after long illnesses.

It is my children, with their generous supply of hugs and sometimes hilarious questions, that make these difficult times bearable. “Goodbye, Mom Mom,” Kira yelled out the window of the car. “Goodbye, Mom Mom,” Talia copied her, sticking her head even further out the window.

“Goodbye, Mom Mom,” I joined in, smiling. Sometimes our children learn from our lead. And other times, such as these, we learn from theirs.

sarasberman@aol.com