Dear Aunt Carrie,
I know you did not see me; your eyes you did not open. I didn't bring a card; I didn't leave a trace of even being in your room. I came to visit you today. Satisfied with sitting here quietly, in the chill of your room, reflecting on my own personal memories of you.
The first memory I have of you was actually before we ever met. I never imagined my wedding dress would be made by, virtually, a stranger to me. I knew that you were a terrific seamstress and I had found a combination of two designs I liked, purchased the goods needed and you created me a beautiful wedding dress, with a cape instead of a veil. With only my body measurements, you put together a winning combination for our special day. You even made my fiance' a bow tie to match my wedding outfit. The Topper, for me, was that you made wrist grips on my cape, ingenious, I might add.
When our loved ones can no longer communicate, I often wonder, are they suffering? Are they at peace? It's so difficult when they can't speak. I uttered my curiosity, kind of under my breath, and wasn't aware a nurse was in the room. Her response was not what I wanted to hear, of course. She said that likely, in this state, they probably are in pain but, often cannot express it.
I shared a few memories with the nurses who checked on you. I saw movement in your hands and movement in your unopened eyes. Being reminded that the hearing is the last thing to go, I have the solace of knowing, you are aware I was here ... and, you will know, when I come again.
I pray for comfort from your physical pain and peace ... your inner peace, peace between family members during such a difficult time, with thanks for knowing you, your grace and love you've shown me over the years.
I love you. ~nrl