Nana

To the great grandmother who gently combed her bended fingertips through my King's curls.

Who never winced or grimaced at his breakneck, sometimes wreckless, inattentive motion across her living room.

Who would offer her last cup of cereal to my King even though at any minute he could unintentionally break any and or all of her apartment furnishings.

Nana, Josephina Ochoa, you are the stuff that goddesses are made of. Many women will die before they ever obtain your kind of wisdom and grace. Not many mothers raise children who raise their children to over-love their children through both their giggles and screams.

You did.

I love you.

I already miss you.

Your laugh in particular.

Or the way you crossed your arms and observe a room on a holiday.

Your sons cross their arms too.

That of you was carried down.

Your laugh however. 

That sweet sound will have to etch itself in my brain forever.