Fellowship...

The phone rang at noon. "Do want want to walk downtown?" It was Mareda, the eighty-four year old woman who lives closest to me. I had adopted her as one of my many grandmothers. "Yes." I answered. "I'll walk with you."

In the thick mist and rain, we journeyed forth. Mareda doesn't like me to hold her arm. She prides herself on being independent. From a very early age, she has had to be strong. Her parents were missionaries. They took her to Burma when she was only two and a half years old. Mareda braved the snakes and spiders, daring to run barefoot in the jungle. At age thirteen, she had to escape with the other children, as the Japanese dropped bombs. As we walked down Main Street, peering through shop windows, Mareda continued speaking of her childhood. I listened, transfixed at her stories of survival.

We saw a collection of miniatures, and entered the store. Mareda held the little clay figure in her hand. She decided to buy it. I smiled, and squeezed her arm, ever so gently. She talked to the shopkeepers. They encouraged her to write.

Tired out, we walked back home. It was three o'clock. Time passes. We remember. We travel the landscape of our memories. The choices we made in the past, and the countless lives over which we had an effect make up a great deal of who and what we are today. Can a series of moments make up a legacy to be left behind?

If so, what is my legacy to others? Have I been kind? Did I love? Was I ever of service? And what of you dear reader? How will you be remembered? Write me a letter, and tell me your story. Peace be with you.