I want to write an entire book with this title as its main theme. It’s a daunting task, I know.
I even started the book, complete with an index of every article it contains. Some of those articles are already written and included. Others still swirl around in my head. The most beautiful ones are composed while I’m in the shower with no possible way of writing them down. Dried and dressed with hair still dripping, I sit down at my laptop and try to recapture what I’d just mentally composed under a cascade of hot water and rich lather.
It doesn’t work. I can’t write it. At least not with the eloquence conveyed in, and then consumed by, the steam of my shower.
My grandmother’s words often flood into my head while I’m washing the dishes, cooking a meal, or berating a child. But rarely does the beauty of who she was ever come through on paper. Maybe her passing is just still too fresh in my mind. Maybe I haven’t yet let go of the woman who raised me as her own when no one else would have me.
Maybe it’s just not (yet) time for me to revisit, with any real detail, who she was and what she meant to me.
Or maybe I’m just not ready to share her with you.