Sitting within the main room of a small rock cottage on the edge of a cliff overlooking a valley a woman rocked back and forth within her padded chair. A small fire crackled within the hearth taking the chill out of the air and lending light to the woman’s eyes. Propped open in her hands was a book she had read so many times the cover was cracked and the pages yellowed. She knew every word written within the old pages but never did she tire of reading them. The book was the journal of her husband and the very last thing he gave her before he died. When she read his words it was like he was standing behind her one of his large hands resting on her shoulder. She found it a great comfort to flip through those pages and remember him.
‘Grama!’ the tear chocked voice of one of her grandsons reached and a moment later a small boy with the exact same eyes as her rushed into the room. He stopped in the doorway and looked at her, tears running down his scuffed face.
He was covered in dirt from head to toe and blood dribbled down his chin from a busted lip. She smiled to herself, set her husbands journal down on the table by her side and held her arms open. Her grandson rushed across the room and she pulled him onto her lap and into her arms. He buried his face in her shoulder and just sat with her silently as she rocked them back and forth.