My Grandmother is very sick

There are those people in your life, who are like mythical characters. They stand tall and proud with wise eyes, and are invincible. Nothing can break them, nothing can keep them from walking through life with their head raised high. They live through depression, oppression, and violence and manage to land on top regardless of what obstacle life might come at them. They carry an air of commanding respect, and shine brightly, sophisticatedly in all their glory.

That is who my grandmother is to me. The woman I'd like to be someday. The lady who would come from far away baring a gift of love unlike any other, because it's only the type of love that a grandparent can shower on a child. That woman, that legend, that mythical figure of my childhood is supposed to live forever, but the sad reality is that she won't. And that makes me terribly sad. Her time is drawing near, and those summer days I spend at her house, will be filed away into a dream, rather that relived year after year. That dream might one day turn into a faded memories, and my children shall never know that same love or that vibrant woman whom I always dreamed of becoming one day.

So for now, I shall prey for her health, and for a painless departure from our world to the next. And have faith that spirits don't die, and that we shall all be reunited one day, in another plain--in a place that knows no pain.

Until then, I shall make the most of the time left, and visit when I can, baring what I hope is the gift of love that only a grandchild can sprinkle onto a parent, and save her memory as clearly and brightly as possible, so that my children will perhaps see a gleam, or know the sparkle of such a grand woman.