Forget-me-not Anonymous

Her hands were as tough as leather, but they felt like velvet to me. She smelled unlike most grandmothers, constantly encompassed by a pungent aroma of fresh mimosas and blooming marigolds. I think it was her eyes that captivated me most as a young girl, soft and blue like violets and deeper than the sandy waves that crashed outside her garden. It was there that my grandmother spent most of her time. If I ever were to call her or stop by to visit, I was sure I could find her on her knees in her frayed, holey overalls and dirt encrusted green gloves with a shovel in hand. I can clearly visualize her straw sunhat, with its pointed ends sticking out all over and little bursts of sunlight peeping through the slivers and gaps.

As I sauntered into her yard, I was bombarded with a mixture of salty ocean air and the fragrance of thriving tulips. That day, the sky was a dull picture, with hardly any sun and even less color, yet the vivid paints of Grandma Jeanie's garden breathed life and warmth into the scene. The constant drone of the rocking ocean waves brought peace to my unsettled mind. It was excruciating having to be here during a time like this, when Grandma Jeanie was not in her usual poised and commodious state. I...