My Grandma.
She is a quiet kind of strength that never complains. She gets to work to see the task through, because there is always another one, still yet to do. Her eyes speak the volumes that rarely escape her lips.
As my family can attest, my grandfather spoke enough for two. While she sits and sips. A glass of Chardonnay, a bowl of mixed nuts, at 5 o'clock, a delightful ending of another full day.
Their love was the stuff of songs, a courtship in daily letters. All she ever wanted is a family that would be there for each other, show up when one is in need, and come together to celebrate the blessings we received. In triumph and tragedy she can always be found, rattling pots and pans, comfort and food enough to go around. In cookies, cakes, casseroles, and soups, how she nurtures with loving intentions and wise knowing looks.
Sometimes it is just time to laugh, she said with an impish glint in her eyes. She likes to play games, and she likes to win.
Her laugh would light up a room, her mouth thrown open with the flash of white from her teeth.
When the wounds of world would tear flesh, her fingers and hands could clean the smarting skin, bandaged and dressed topped with a kiss deftly placed on the point of pain. A grandmother’s gift.
As mysterious as the moon, in her waxing and wain. A depth of emotion in the undercurrents of unseen magic.
We gaze upon her face, radiant in reflection of our light, she helped create. In times of sorrow she suffers alone, unwilling to unburden herself on others.
Her devotion to faith, the Heavenly Father, knelt in humility, Mother Mary, pray for us.
Her passing leaves a void in the night sky. Will the waters still flow? Will the night creature know which direction to go? How will I know, when the new moon appears? She is no longer here.
