oneword: provide

The granite is gray and cold to the touch. It is strange to be standing here, staring across at your name, my fingers tracing the etching of the lily and the cross. My knees cramp from the weight of my torso leaning over to brush off the grass and debris from the winds this weekend.

I am sorry that it has taken seven years to say this, to come back here.

To be honest, the guilt was too much. I should have been there, given you my hand to take and hold onto while the world spun out of control into what I hope was a warm and inviting light.

What kind of granddaughter was I to not provide for you in your last years? Visiting you became a weekend chore, and I let the lure of friends pull me from enjoying what little time I could with you.

My mom talks a lot about butterflies, how they land on her when she comes here, even in the dead of winter. I want desperately to see and feel that, to know that even though I wasn't there for you, a part of you is still there for me.