My memories of her breach that impenetrable, unseen
screen between us. At 93 she had left me before I was
ready, before there was another door I could open for
more sunshine and the camaraderie of someone who
always listened until she understood.
A cloud of shared premonition had shrouded our last day
together. Leaning against the door she drooped as I stooped
to tie her shoe. Not above a prank, she never shrank from
a bit of fun. It’s the other shoe she giggled. She was old
and she was dying. As I turned the corner to get one last
glance, she winked at me.

Loved the phrase "listened until she understood" - inspirational/aspirational language describing an admirable talent.