She was ninety-four years old and she moved to this country from what is now the Czech Republic when she was very young. She got married when she was nineteen - which is how old I am now and that's really weird to think about. She could knit like nobody's business -- she made me sweaters all the time when I was little. We all thought that was funny because I lived in Florida, but she said I could use them when I visited family up north, and I did. I remember one in particular that was navy blue with little red boats on it. It was my favorite -- because it was so warm. I'm a wimp when it comes to cold weather, and she knew that.
She made me a beautiful purple afghan that I wish I still had, and a black and orange one, too (and I do still have that one) -- even though by that time her hands shook too hard for her to do it easily. She gave me my first cup of coffee on the sly, telling me not to let my parents know. I was six. I've been an addict ever since. She made seven layer cake with chocolate frosting that *never, ever* has been matched for sheer deliciousness.
The last time I saw her was last year at my aunt's wedding. She...twinkled. I didn't talk to her nearly as often as either one of us would have liked, and I loved her very much. She told me she was proud of me.
I'm sort of...I don't know. I'm not...as overtly sad as I would have expected. Except when I am. I don't make much sense right now. I wish I had something profound to say about this, but I can't say much other than this is who she was. This is who she was to me. And this happened. And this is how I feel right now -- except even that part's a bit tricky. Because I don't know, but then...wouldn't it be false if I pretended to? It seems that I'm supposed to know. I just don't though. And maybe that's okay.
I'm not sure.