A dead woman’s books sit on my desk, the smell of her now emptied home, clinging to the pages.
Her second best white china tea set sits on on counter top, waiting for a home in my kitchen.
Her little elegant round dinning table and matching chairs nestle in the far corner of the room,
enticing those who look at it’s curves to come sit at it.

Her name was Catherine but as it was the name of her Grandmother, her father always called
her Josie, which was taken from her second name and that it was that name that all knew her by.
Except the nurses when her husband lay dying of a heart attack calling for her and they were
afraid it was the name of his mistress and never called her into the room to be there in his last moments.

He died leaving her a widow with five children, the youngest being but a babe in arms.
She had a hard time of it then, with Ireland being how it was in the early 60s, but she
never stopped being a lady and did her best to pass that on to her children.

First time she visited here, I made a point of having her over to take Tea.
Tea not tea one being a beverage, the other an afternoon filled with the best tea set,
fresh homemade warm scones and conversation which ranged over topics from family
past and present and other topics. It was a delight to listen to her tell tales which either
her own family had grown tired to listening to or were never told due to them being
her flesh and blood, where I was family but adopted by her.

It’s a year from when she passed on and the two years before that were not kind to her.
She lost her dignity and most her memories but I shall be endeavoring to make sure
that my own children do not forget her and will tell those tales of her family which are
their family to them so they pass them to the generations to come and maybe
the little round table and chairs as well.