Slice of Life

When I was only a few years old my great grandmother passed away. I don't think I knew her, but my family definitely has many fond memories of her. We have one picture of me, no older than 1 year, shelling peas on a porch swing with her. My family sees this picture often, and it is always quite an ordeal, remembering her. But it doesn't bother me. I like hearing the stories of my Mom's childhood summers, spent at her comfortable yellow house.
I don't remember much about her death. I remember my parents crying, something impossible for me to understand at such a young age. I remember flying to Maine late at night. We drove for hours, the bright lights of other cars shining at me until I fell asleep. I barely remember her funeral. It was the only funeral I ever went to. I either remember it, or made up a story in my mind over the years, a story of a short little girl waiting, confused, and scared.

She may be dead, but stories and memories keep her alive. Her recipes and traditions and household items have been treasured and kept, and will never be forgotten. She doesn't seem similar to anyone else. She seems like a strong, unique, strict, loving woman, with personality and flair. I never knew her well, but I almost do because of the stories my family tells.