Her grandmother used to say that relatives shouldn’t die in winter because their just too hard to bury. Every winter she vowed to live and every spring she promised to die, a commitment she renewed even after her lifespan spilled beyond its first century.
As the crocuses awakened from their frosty slumber daubing smudges of lavender between the mossy tracts of sod and the twinkling patches of snow, her grandmother died. She left her life when it was practical to leave, ever mindful of the burden she never wanted to be.
Excerpts from The Eyes to See Grace:
Soloist©2007
