Dorothy, our little Dorothy's great-grandmother, passed away Tuesday, the sixth. I don't know what to say about that. She was eighty-eight when she passed, and, though the last few days were painful, most of that eighty-eight years was of great health, vitality, and spirit. In fact, if there were one word I would use about my grandmother, my Mammar as all us grandchildren called her, it would be spirit. She had a remarkable attitude, lively and kind, generous and loving. All of that is true, but it feels so flat on the page. I don't know how to evoke her spirit here.
I know, we named Dory after a great woman. I know, in the last few weeks, I've never been more pleased that our daughter carries on the name of my strong, bright, passionate grandmother. But it still feels flat. I would like to write about her, to honor her in some way, but at the moment, it still feels too new and too hard.
For now, here is a picture of her namesake, a picture I think Mammar would have loved.
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