Gramma was gone.  It was a tragedy of immense proportions in Emma’s mind.  Her confidant her most treasured companion with whom she’d shared her highest highs and lowest lows always offering listening ear or warm hearted-hug.  No matter what she was doing, she’d made time for Emma.

Emma’s story writing was born from hours sitting at her gramma’s knee, or reading books with exquisitely told stories as she breathed life into each character.  She’d often regaled her with stories, some true, others created with her own particular brand of delightful imagination.  She counted the nights she’d fallen asleep to Gramma’s fairy tales.

How she’d treasured her, thought her delightful, divine, fun and sweet and the most delicious peanut butter cookies the world had ever known.

As she sat reminiscing, she could almost smell cookies baking in the oven and as she glanced about her small but efficient home, noted each object and remembered a story that grew out of it.

I miss you now and forever, gramma.  I promise to write down every story so they can live for other children to enjoy.  A little piece of you shared in each.  My gift to them, is you.

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