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My Nana passed away yesterday. 

I’m not sure what to say, it feels so awkward. Grief is not what I expected it to be. It’s so weird. 

Nana was one of my blog readers. She commented here and there, and told me that she liked how happy my blog was. I told her that I liked it happy, too. I’ve been reading over her comments for a little, and it makes me feel better. 

Nana was a storyteller. Growing up, she would have me at her house for a sleepovers. Just before we would go to bed, Nana would tell me a story. I loved her stories, and I still do. I looked forward to her stories every night, and I remembered begging her for more.

One summer, I started a family newspaper, The Backyard Gazette. I wrote down the stories that happened to us each week and gave them to Nana when she would pick us up. When we’d get back to her house, she’d sit in her rocking chair and read each and every single one, telling me that the stories were “fabulous” and “exciting.”

Not long after I started writing short stories in school. I would write them, and then carefully print them onto fresh paper, and then give the story to Nana to read. After I finished one story, Glory in particular, my teacher helped me use some big pieces of construction paper and yarn to make a book out of it. I illustrated each page and drew the main character on the cover. I gave the book to Nana, and she had said that it was “the best story ever written.” 

Nana’s stories are probably the biggest reason why I love to blog and write. Her stories were a big inspiration to me. Even now, as I am writing, I am thinking about one of her stories she told me. Nana might not be able to tell me stories anymore, but the ones I have tucked away already are cherished, well worn memories.