Sophia
I visited my grandmother's grave a few days after we returned from Portugal, the trip having stirred something deep and reflective in me that felt important to properly honor before whatever came next in my life continued unfolding.
The cemetery sat quiet on the outskirts of the city, well maintained despite its age, my grandmother's modest headstone nestled beneath a large oak tree that offered gentle shade during warmer months. I brought fresh flowers, as I always did, kneeling carefully to arrange them against the base of her stone.
"Hi, Grandma," I said softly, the familiar ritual of talking to her settling something calm and grounding in my chest. "I went to Portugal. Saw your village, the house where you grew up. It was beautiful, exactly like you always described it."
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