This is my grandmother, Anna, in France. A year ago, I lost her, and I was standing in my kitchen when my heart broke so wildly and completely that I thought I was dying too. Grief…what a spectacular haunting.

And while my heart is still bruised, I am telling myself over and over, that she is running. She is leaping. Her mind is quick. Her eyes are sharp. She is the stuff of magic once again.

When I was little, my grandmother called me her kindred spirit. “We’re February’s children,” she would whisper. “You’re Tuesday’s child,” she would emphasize. “Full of grace.” It was a spell, I imagined. A spell to bind my spirit to her, to cause myself to wander through life, developing into another version of her.

She spoke in poetry, a song for everything. Poems about the day you were born mingled with the Lord’s Prayer and sealed with the enchanting song of a prince dancing among the fairy rings.

Her home was decorated in blue and birds. When she lived there, it was immaculate. Now, the wallpaper yellows and peels in my uncle’s old bedroom. To some, the house looks to be meant for sale. To me, the house looks to be full of secrets. These secrets are tucked away, in jars, as keys to mystery boxes and locks. They’re tucked away, in books, as recipes she jotted down or hand-drawn sewing patterns. These secrets are tucked away, in drawers, as scraps of paper listing every single address she ever lived, as poems she wrote for my grandpa when he was away at war, and as photographs of all the people she ever loved.

She is my kindred spirit; a secret all to herself, my last memory of her at age 91, in a home for those that suffer with dementia. She is my kindred spirt, so loved I can barely bring myself to cross the threshold of the place that keeps her secrets now. She is my kindred spirit, compelling me to keep secrets of my own, so that one day, they may be discovered.

~shared by @christinaelysec