It is the smallest of things that keep memories alive.
When our granddaughter was last here before disappearing out of our lives, she did a drawing of me, and I kept it in her memory box. I used to get it out and look at it often, I could see the concentration on her face as she sketched me.
I couldn’t look at it and be sad, it made me smile, every time.
She used to like anything creative and the more glitter the better, I would be sweeping up glitter for months after she had been here.
We have a little summer house at the bottom of our garden and she would spend hours down there, chatting away to herself, swinging her legs that didn’t quite reach the floor. Happily drawing, painting, gluing and sticking, at one point the walls were full of her masterpieces.
As years went by, the masterpieces began to fade and curl up, they crumpled. It felt symbolic somehow.
Our granddaughter now has that picture back, I hope a memory that she will treasure, just like I did.
I think those who know me will see what a great likeness it is!