You loved to sing. Often, when I went visiting, I could hear you, your clear beautiful voice soaring, sometimes sad and mournful, sometimes wildly, wildly happy. I loved to just stand outside for a while before I went in, to just stand and soak in that voice, the one that sounded like liquid sunshine, the one that sounded like tears. When I went in you never looked offended, never made me feel like I was interrupting something that you held close, almost sacred. I loved those long summer afternoons, endlessly stretching into the night, those afternoons warm and musical and bittersweet.
Time is relative, they say. And it is. That time passed by so quick, so quickly, it was like a dream that I later looked back on. It was gone before I even realized it was there, gone before I could appreciate its presence. And when I finally reached out and tried to grab it, it slipped through my fingers like the finest of gossamer threads, and my hands clutched at nothing.