I will write more about her. I write about her all the time. For now, I will say this: She was an artist. She was a poet. She read to me and my beautiful sisters, Jen and Beth. She read to our children, Max, Katie and Cerulean. More recently, we read to her.She painted in the dining room. She made curry and lamb chops and the best chocolate birthday cakes. She also made doll houses, painting the windows so it was always sunny outside.She liked thrift stores and walking along the sidewalks of Great Neck, where she would often find treasures. Broken jewelry, flattened bottle caps, pennies. She didn't make much of it, she told me a year or two ago. She just always felt like they'd been left there for her."Who left them?" I asked her."I never really thought about that," she said. And she laughed in that way she had. Like a mischievous four-year-old with a sweet secret.She saw the world as color and music, acorn cups and moss, adventure and bird song. My friends liked to sit in her kitchen where, they said, they could always be themselves.I will miss her with all my heart.