Winter Mourning

For a woman who always had so many words — so many witty, sincere, and important words — nothing I could say would ever really be enough. The holidays are coming, and I miss her. My grandmother, my Baa, is always going to be with me.

A fire that flames out in the flicker of the wind leaves no mark; like a single-flamed candle full of promises for tomorrow and blown out in one hopeful breath … it is forgotten.

That was not my grandmother.

She is with us, like the scent of bonfire that clings to your clothes and stokes your dreams with loving memories; she is with us.

In the end, we gathered around her, huddled and waiting like you might around a hearth in the final, drawn out moments of the fire that has for so long warmed the whole house.

We swapped stories like a fire-side chat and prayed the light would never burn out; we took turns beaming into her closing eyes. We held each other as her breath thinned and began to chill.

We took turns burning the sound of her voice, the song of her laugh, into the palms of our hands to hold onto in the cold nights to come, when we would wake and wonder why winter began so suddenly.

But she is with us.

In the blush of a deep & purpling rose

In the scent of sunscreen and sunshine by the pool

In the lingering bubbles of a Jack & Diet Coke

In the shuffling of an aged and yellowing deck of cards

The sun set on summertime, but we will still wear dark sunglasses (over-sized and glamourous) and be with her.

Every key on the piano will forever spark a memory; every change of the seasons and the holidays that come and go will bring her back to us.

The fire is out, and the days are colder now, but spring will be here soon. And when little April showers find us laughing again, she’ll be with us.

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