I remember when I was a little girl hearing stories of my grandmother. I never knew her but felt as though I did. I remember the first time that I saw her picture. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever set my eyes on. She was so beautiful, so feminine, so elegant, so poised.
My mother was so proud of her and loved her so much. She always called her mother her angel. She would tell me wonderful stories of when she was a little girl. How her mother took care of her, took her to church, to school, how she taught her how to do so many things. She told me of all the wonderful times they had together. She also told me of how her mother comforted her when she was sad. It seemed as though her mother was the most perfect lady that ever lived! I grew to love my grandmother so, although I had never had the opportunity to meet her. I grew to almost idolize this most perfect person that ever lived. She often recounted these lovely memories, which were the happiest days of my own mother’s life. Then, when she was twelve years old, tragedy struck and my mother’s life would never be quite as happy again.
When she was twelve years old, her mother took suddenly ill and died in a matter of days. Even at that young age she perceived that she died because of a doctor’s negligence, although she never could tell me exactly what the illness was. My mother never got over her death. Not until the day that she, herself died. She would tell me in such detail as to how she watched as the sudden illness struck my grandmother and then how she watched her angel leave her side never to return again. Even as a little girl, I saw her grief and pain. I believe that is when I was introduced to compassion. Through her eyes, I felt the loss of her one true love. I felt as if I, myself, was there as she had lost her best friend, her comforter, her rotector.
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