Sweet Lemonade Out of Wrinkly Limes.

She was a gentle spirit who sang her prayers, but even the saintly have limits.  She was an artist, a singer, a storyteller.   She was a mother, a daughter, a wounded healer sought out by her neighbors for comfort and answers.  She was my hero, my teacher, my friend. 

 She was crafts and science projects of carrot tops in shallow saucers or bird seeds in eggshells which later resembled a miniature forest on our windowsill.   She was pastel colored chicks at Easter, picnics, and carousels at the park in summer.  She was happy Christmas carols a shiny aluminum Christmas trees with bright blue ornaments.  

I was her daughter – sometimes rude, sometimes impatient, but always in awe of the brave woman who could make a tall glass of sweet lemonade when life gave her a bowl of tart, wrinkled,  old limes.