On Wednesday, October 29th, my grandmother Esther May Estell died at the age of 93.
My mother, my uncles, my aunts, and my cousin Lynn were with her when she died, as she would have wanted it.
She suffered a major stroke six weeks ago, and she fought until the end, as she had always done. She had already survived two heart-attacks, a previous stroke, and other health issues that would have finished most people.
My grandfather Lyle died in 1955, leaving her with three children — 13, 10, and 7.
There is much more that I want to say, that I could say, that I should say, in this post.
But all I can say now is: I miss my Gram.