She showed up.
In small ways.
In quiet moments.
Without needing to be asked.
When I was in the hospital for cancer surgery—right in the thick of the unknown, though thank the Lord, it was short and treatable—
she shuffled her way over to be there for me and my family.
She came early.
She sat with us.
Just to be there.
She was in her late 80s. Mostly blind.
Still shuffling her way through the hospital halls.
Still remembering names and stories.
Still showing up.
That was her rhythm.
And it wasn’t just with me.
People still light up when Dorothy Anne’s name comes up.
There’s this feeling they carry—like something bright passed through their life and stayed.
You don’t always get words for people like that.
You just remember how they made you feel.
That was her gift.
She made time.
She paid attention.
She left people better than she found them.
And maybe that’s what made the goodbye so hard.
Later that year, she was gone.
The loss was sudden.
The ache still lives.
But this is what I carry:
She didn’t make it about herself.
She just showed up—with warmth, with care, with quiet consistency.
And that kind of love doesn’t disappear.
It stays.
Even now.
