My grandmother, Ester Viola Rawls Erickson, died earlier this month at 94 years old. I've spent a fair amount of time and ink since then trying to put my feelings about her, her incredible life and her death into words, but everything that comes out sounds overly sentimental and sweet, and that was not my grandmother. She was a tough, stubborn woman who could sniff b.s. from a mile away. She was a writer, too, a really good one, which would make honoring her with fluffy nonsense all the more disrespectful. In time, I'm sure I'll be able to sort things out and cobble together a tribute that's remotely worthy of her.
But for now I will just say this: I loved her. And I hope that as time passes I will prove to have more of her in me than just my fair skin and freckles.
JEM
P.S. Anyone interested can read an the first few pages of her novel "The Ones We Love" here.
