My mother loved a sunset. Not just the run of the mill kind but the ones that painted the sky pink and purple and orange. She would point to the rare, spectacular ones throughout my childhood, “Look Susie, look at the sky. Isn’t it beautiful?”

I’d go along, oohing and aahing but it wasn’t until I was 18 and she was gone due to cancer, that they began to mean something to me. I would notice the rare sunset that was her favorite, get a warm feeling and smile, considering it to be a visit from her.

If I happened to be with someone when one of the sunsets appeared, I’d share the story of how much she loved them and how much I loved feeling her presence, even for just a few moments. When my daughters were old enough I told them about their grandmother and when one of the sunsets would appear we’d say, “It’s a Grandma Jean sunset!”

Over the years I’ve often gotten messages from my closest friend, and once years after our divorce, from my ex-husband saying, “It’s a Grandma Jean sunset.” Treasured, shared observations make it even more real that her spirit never dies.