I met her in January disheveled, but still, storm after my nanna died. Nanna loved calling me a weird nickname, which sounded like a lisp. I loved the nickname though I never got around to use it.
I met her while she hummed, the melody of a sweet distant song lightly tinted the cold air. Of fireflies on nanna deathbed and the youthful image of nanna when she loved me.
Her halo burned my eyes when I looked up the sky.
I met an angel with honeyed voice, bright eyes. Gentle. Kinder, most of all.
I met nanna: resurrected, immortal, young. Never in a thousand lives over will she lose that soft sound voice, rippling, harmonious as an angel's would.
