I sit on a mountaintop, gazing over the fog covered valley below, thinking of her. A soft breeze whips a strand of hair across my face. Closing my eyes, I listen for her voice in the wind. I can almost hear it… but it eludes me. 

She used to be so present. I lived in her house. She was my best friend, my closest confidante. And then, like a quiet whisper, she left. With a soft breath, she disappeared. 

A butterfly floats by. An image of her watering the garden in her cotton skirt flashes in my mind. And then it is gone, like a flower cut and tossed in the dust.

A chill creeps up and I wrap my blanket tighter around me, wanting to feel her warmth one more time. In my mind’s eye, I suddenly see her sitting under the vine-laden trellis, with a pair of Dad’s pants and a sewing needle. She is telling me something, laughing. I want to laugh with her, to hold on to the moment forever. The image fades, like a dimming light, barely flickering.

Psalm 103 says our days are like grass. Like a flower in the field, we flourish. When the wind passes over it, it is no more, and its place acknowledges it no longer. 

But I cannot forget her. Every morning and every evening, I feel her absence. The house has lost the aroma of her cooking. And the laughter of her grandkids, running in to show her something.

I look up and see an eagle, reminding me of the next verse of the psalm: But the lovingkindness of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear Him, and His righteousness to children’s children.

He has not forgotten her. Or me.