To one of those ghosts, newly made.

Grandma Jane,

I can’t possibly remember everything — all the loving and giving and taking care of me you did. All you taught, shared, instilled in me. But I remember moments, snatches of time, mere glimpses into the complex depths of your life.

Summers spent in the hot sun at pools and waterparks, passing through the packed hallways of Circus Circus, down the blazing Strip. I have no recollection of what exactly you did while I slid down slides or shot water streams at surfers, winning a dunk in a ice cold water or a stuffed animal in neon stripes. But, I always knew that as soon as I neded you — there you were smiling and asking what I needed or wanted.

Always, that’s how it was. I only had to think of what I wanted to do, and there we went.

One summer, you were committed to teaching me how to quilt. It was a long week of work under bright white lamp and the sewing machine’s slow, meticulous buzz.

I didn’t apprecaite it at the time. It was never my passion as it was your’s, but the skill of sewing has never failed me in life. Now, I patch trousers and jacket with colorful patches, and I think of you. I match thread to fabric, and I quietly thank you for pushing me to learn when I’d rather be watching a movie or climbing a tree behind your house.

As both aged — you into the closing of your time and me into my adult years — I slowly learned more of you and your life. Only ever enough to wish I’d known more, seen more, experienced more with you. But, I am blessed for the moments we had. And I hold every little scrap of memory close to my heart.

You will always be remembered and loved.


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