My grandmother's body slowly shifts into the rock, weaving into the dead texture. Eyes faded and grey, seeing more than I will ever know, and yet nothing at all. Her wisdom has eroded since mine began to flow, and yet still it seems she knows all. When I ask questions that should not have an answer, she carves a way through the stone. Once, when I was young and hopeful I asked about the river of time, where it would flow.
Her eyes were clearer then. They sparkled like sunlight on a stream.
“Curiosity haunts you. Does it tire your mind?” My eyes spoke an answer.
“There are questions we cannot comprehend, and will challenge our minds until they reach the edge.” She spoke from her soul, aged and tired, but with a richness carried from her past.
“It hurts. Not to know so much.” I was learning the way of soul-speaking.
Her eyes shone in understanding. “I know. But we must brave this unknown, until we cross into deepest bits of ourselves. Only then can we embrace infinity. Hope grows from the smallest of seeds. Maybe then we will finally lay down our weapons and tend to our hearts.”
Her wisdom was deeper than the mind. It dwelt in her core, and shone in her love.
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