When I was visiting with her, I could be whoever I wanted, however I wanted, not feeling I needed to please (story of my life otherwise) and stuff whatever I wanted into the ever-greedy maw of my mind.
Now she's in the hospice, dying of cancer, angry with the world. She has never quite felt understood and wanted, and she suffers the regrets of a life some of which she hasn't had the chance to live. She always made me feel understood and wanted, me and the generations of children and adults who came to her library and left with their lies a bit richer than when they came in.
I'm writing her letter at the moment, saying some of those things, though I hope she knows.
To imagine a world and her not in it is beyond me.