I never understood why when someone died they were referred to as being late, the late Mrs. X, or the late Mr. Y. It’s a peculiar thing to me to call someone who’s passed away as being ‘late’ when almost always they’re gone much too early. Death and the passing of a person is such a strange thing for the way memory can turn that person into an intangible immortal in a way where you can remember holding them but can never have them hold you back.
And yet, there’s the memories.

Looking at photographs of her taking me through Balboa Park just after I’d learned to walk, I can still remember her holding my hands and sneaking me chocolates as a young child and adult; the smile she always had on and her great husky voice and laugh that would echo all throughout Scranton.

Now, staring at the ceiling of some bus which is driving me toward the coast of the country and away from her city, all I can see, beyond the small stars printed on a thin filament of felt attached to the roof, are images of her as she helped guide and heal me through so many things I encountered in life: how to tell a girl I liked her, what to do when it rains, how to ride a bike, crossing the street, jumping a fence, navigating my way through falling snow or standing still to stare at deer in her front yard.

I always thought living a good life meant instilling some semblance of happiness in a stranger. And if I consider my grandmother’s life, all I can see are the great things she so wondrously instilled in me.

I love you grandma, I hope you’re resting peacefully now and there’s a million chocolates and sweets for you wherever you are. ~shared by @JaworskiJason