September 13, 2015

My grandmother was an old woman the day I met her. Her name was Bessie. Not short for anything, just Bessie. I lived in Colorado. She lived in Falls Creek, Pennsylvania. We only visited there a few times. Her room smelled of age, the floors echoed time, and creaked a history we grandchildren would learn little about.

She was an artist. She drew and she painted with all kinds of materials including the most detailed brown ink on paper imaginable.

                                ink church