I remember that wonderful lady like I remembered the scab on my right knee.
She was from Georgia, a honey sweet peach that lived a blocked away from me on Summer Set avenue.

She was as white as snow and fragile like my mom's glass figurines.
She always wore her long bleached grey hair in a pull-back tight bun,
almost like a nun. She would always wear powdered makeup that seemed to be brought from the 50's,

Very pastel and brittle on her gentle old skin.

She was humble like the bees, soft talking too.

I remember every early summer weekend I would walk on down to that lady's house.
I would knock on her burgundy shiny wooden door and peek through her small window filled with cat-like collections.

She would let me in and treat me almost like I was her own.
She would sit me down on her floral sofa and whip me up my favorite treat,
Oatmeal baked cookies with a tall glass of hickory sweet lemon tea.

My favorite.

This lady was everything and anything.
She would wrap me in her quilted blanket and play some classical 50's tunes,
We would swing on her back porch and count the Blue Jays in the sky.
I loved the way she would tell her magnificent stories,
The way she talked sounded like soothing waves of the seven seas.

I loved her.

Her deep, poetic advices gave me hope,
It made me realize my inner self.

As the days became weary and the summer sun was drifting,
That wonderful lady was getting weary herself.
She was able to hang as long as anyone I can think of.
At least she stood her grounds and fought for every penny she made in her life.

What a trooper.

I'll never forget that wonderful lady,
She was like a grandma to me.
I actually felt I had someone to talk to during those long summers.

What a wonderful lady.