My grandmother, like most, was the rock that all families stand on.

I have often struggled writing about her because she was so much more than words can express. But for anyone who has ever had a goddess for a grandmother, than you will understand.

Her story began in Wellington, Kansas, born into the hot winds of a late July. She loved to read and her favorite book was “For Whom the Bell Tolls”. She would tell me that Hemingway was perfect. The extraordinary writer with a dark soul.

She was also a believer in magic and storytelling. Some of the best ghost stories would come from her.

She came from a Spanish/Mexican/Welsh background so the festivities of May Day would intertwine with tales of the cucuy.

Her favorite flower was the Iris and her house was surrounded by them next to an open field.

So here is an attempt to capture the spirit that was and is my grandmother.

In the days of romance, when the sands blew into the homes.

A child worked tireless to clean the debris away.

She read in the sun, loving her studies.

Words pouring in her mind of the lands she would later create.

She healed with oils and spices, herbs in the kitchen cabinet.

“You must get up at dawn on May Day if you want to remain pretty” is what she would say.

She painted her nails red and drank whiskey.

Dancing and laughing in the dark with her friends.

She never uttered an unkind word to anyone.

A Monarch butterfly she had become.


In the attempt to regain her soul,

The spirits captured her while in deep slumber.

She started to see “Men in the Trees” which lead her far from home.

In a confined bed, only jumbled colors swirled around in her head.

Such perfect poison flowing into a stream.

Till one day her magic was set free.


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