A Letter to Someone I Barely Began to Know

I don't know why I'm writing this now. It's been so long since you passed away. I guess it's because of the sunrise this morning. It reminded me of my painting that you so delighted in. The sky was a soft pink and nearly transparent yellow, and the trees were dark and silhouetted against the rising sun. I tried to capture that in paint, and you adored it so much that it became yours right at that instant.

When I gave it to you, you were so thankful and delighted that it floored me. I'll never forget that. Your delight was a gift that I will always cherish.

I remember when I visited you on my own. We sat in your simple yet refined, cozy little living room, and you told me stories of your younger days, days when you endured war and trouble, days and years when you went without eating an egg, finally eating one after three years, only to wake up with a full body rash that burned and itched unbearably. I'll never forget the way your eyes twinkled as you told it. It made me wish I had been there with you. It made me wish I had known you all your life.

I still have the letter you sent me. I read it every once in a while, and regret that I had not known you longer. I regret that my shyness prevented me from asking 50,000 questions. I think you would have answered them all. We adopted you as our honourary grandma, and you rose to the challenge. You had spunk.

I'm thankful for the time I had to know you. I do miss you.