Gram.

Note: I wrote this several weeks ago when I found out that my Gram was going to pass away within the month. I was in a plane on my way back from Minnesota.

Barbara Roberts Munson passed away today at the age of 78.

It's been a couple days since I heard Gram was going too fast. I was on my way home. Gram is too.

Cities burned below like lava, all orange and glowing through the misty sky as we floated toward Texas. They stood out like lighthouses in the grey dusk. Like a lost traveler, the lights guided me home. For the first time all week I felt like my feet were on solid ground - suspended 20,000 feet in the air.

In the distance a giant cluster of that lava light sprawled out in front of me. I thought of Gram, braving every second, selfless as a blanket, warming everyone with her last energy. As the night crept in, the cities only burned brighter. I missed Gram right then - already.

I cried some. Then I remembered. I remembered Egypt, blueberry pancakes and Babe the pig. I remembered the way she adored her husband, the way they fawned over each other when they celebrated 50 years together. And I remembered how she made some horrendous meat loaf once when I was younger. Mostly I kept remembering her faith.

I miss you, Gram. See you soon.