• Grama was not a terribly expressive person. near the time of her death she started talking about butterflies. And now, whenever i see them and that blue blue sky, I know that deep down past my nearly athiest heart, I know she is still with me.

  • Round and full of life, swirling through each layer, thick meaty fruit, sweet nectar juice, hanging off the branch, surrounded with green foliage.

  • Contained. In one small vessel of violence. Each one silent as they exploded, time standing still. She was gone. I could hear nothing.

  • Somewhere along the line I was given this great gift. It was you. But since youve been gone– nearly 10 years– I have found myself living intandom with a replacement. A facsimile of you. Looks like you, thinks like you… But it is not you.