To one in paradise... a year on.



The Snowdrop fairy whom my grandma loved

 Today marks a year since the day that my Grandma Pam died in hospital just before she was meant to be coming home. She was the best Grandma ever, so stong, so humble, so fun, so good, pure and loving.
She honestly belivied in faries with me (and that I was one) and I will always remember her as the sweetest person. She honestly loved, loved and loved. I know it is common to remember one like this. But she was truly, truly good. Intelligent but simple. She knew herself.
This year has been hard but I know she would want us all to continue as normal. Never one to make a fuss. I hae seen my mother work herself (virtually) into the gravetrying to orgaise everything, look after my grandad ( who is lovly bu not uite so understanding), organise a move for him, continue with her job and always alwasys stay strong. I am here for her.
  I saw my father show sorrow. My paretns have been divorced for years but he jumed to attention and showed real grief and love at the funeral. This respect is amazing.
  This year I have grown and always remembered Grandma Pam. She helps me. Everytime I have negative thought or want to give up...  I know what she would want.
Thank you.

I believe. I believe. I do believe in faries!

Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine--
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
 All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
 And all the flowers were mine.

 Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
 "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
 (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!

 For, alas! alas! with me
 The light of Life is o'er!
"No more--no more--no more"--
 (Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
 Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
 And where thy footstep gleams--
In what ethereal dances,
 By what eternal streams!
Alas! for that accursed time
They bore thee o'er the billow,
From love to titled age and crime,
 And an unholy pillow!
 From me, and from our misty clime,
 Where weeps the silver willow!

1835 by Edgar Allan Poe