enter clever title here.

I'm sitting across the room from my Aunt Grace, age 93. I try not to make it noticable, but I'm making a study of method and study she uses while going through the stack of papers she has next to her. She's going through the ninty odd years worth of papers my late Uncle, her brother, had procured during his life, in effort to organize, arrange, and compress. As her shaking hands are grasping at receipts, yellowed magazine pages, and smeared letters, it dawns on me that my aunt is really fucking old.

But then she speaks, and I can't tell the difference in all the twenty years I've known her, her voice is like a child's. The way she speaks to my mother suggests she has all of the time in the world.

So, as you can tell, this trip's meant a lot of things to me.

It's funny, even as I write this, I'm afraid I'll get her wrong. With every word she speaks, I compare it to my words and think, "is this wrong?", and when I listen to her I feel, know, that she is beautiful.

Well, I'm going to write more often. You have my word.