The Story Teller

I remember that day
my Ouma and me
perched on the bench
in the shade of her stoep
making up adventures
like we always did.

I remember that day
bright brown eyes
crinkling at the edges
her words, like whispers
captured by the keys
as I typed, my new laptop
balanced on my knees.

I remember that day
my Ouma and me
mind filled with light
eyes button-bright
sharing her final story
with me.

My Ouma has gone
but her stories live on
and now I am
the story teller.

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Image credit: Sasint @ Pixabay

Written in response to Sadje‘s What Do You See #110 photo prompt