To my grandmother who, when she leaves, will never truely be gone.

(Bare with me on this. I just got some disturbing news. This is written on little sleep, lots of heartache, and even more love.) 

Here I sit surrounded by book upon book. Some new, some many years old. Each one filled with pieces of her spirit, of her soul. I pick up one close at hand. I lovingly trace it’s old tattered cover. I open it. Here I can see a beautiful sunset. I watch as the sun slowly sinks behind the distant purple mountains. I watch the sun turn the sky yellow, then red. I watch as the sun dips completely behind the mountains and the sky turns a deep blue. Slowly the stars twinkle into existance and the sky turns black with only the stars for light.

I set that book down and pick up another. This one newer. Maybe a year or two old. The writing, still as smooth and flowing as one written 20 years before. Here I see a flower. Standing straight and tall. The bud newly opened. The color as clear and bright as paint on a painters palate. I can smell the sweet perfume and watch a butterfly as it lands on the flower to drink it’s sweet nectar.

I see this because of the beautiful way she has woven words into pictures. Because of her, I am able to see instances in time that happened 40 years ago or yesterday. An instance in her life. Something about that sunset touched her. Something in that flower inspired her. She had to write about them. Had to share them with anyone who cares to read.

I turn the page. Here I see her, with family and friends, getting together to play poker. I see them sitting at the card table, her husband dealing out the cards as everyone laughs at a joke told, or watching the kids run through the house playing and laughing with each other. Nothing out of the ordinary, a mundane memory, but an instance in her life that she had to share. Inspired to preserve it for those who come after her.

She never finished school, never thought herself clever or smart, but she understood that words are important. They have the power to hurt, heal, inspire, teach. The power to paint pictures and share a part of herself. She didn’t leave much in her passing. She never had much. But she left her words and her passion for words. With these words, she left pieces of herself. Pieces of her soul. Because she left these pieces, she will never be truly gone. I will treasure these pieces always.

(She is not gone, yet, and will never be forgotten.)