Monday.

Last night I sat in the quiet settling twilight with my grandmother. I pulled back the blinds once the sun had transitioned close to the horizon and the glare no longer threatened to scorch her broadly dilated pupils. There's a large hydrangea bush outside her window in full glorious bloom and she watched the day's light linger on its leaves while I watched her.

I can't take my eyes off her. She remains the most beautiful woman I have ever known.

Earlier we talked of our friendship. We talked of how we love each other.

Later a nurse stopped by to administer eye drops for her glaucoma and for the shingles that have tormented her in these last weeks, and she asked me, sensitive to my vigil, "Good Grama?"

"The best," I said, choking on tears.

But the best doesn't nearly capture the way this woman has loved me and I have loved her. And the name Grama doesn't nearly hold all the ages that we've fended for each other and fought off each others foes.

What Grama said, as she said goodbye again and again and lifted her weak arms to hug me and asked for kiss after kiss, nearly captures it:

"I've never known a separation like this -- the agony -- indescribable."