I’m hardly up the porch steps and through the squeaky door when my eyes find the sparkly thread dancing through her icy blue sweater. Surprisingly strong arms wrap her warm vanilla scent around me. Stepping back, I notice the twenty Rascal Flats guitar picks adorning her wrinkled neck. Her shiny silver clip-ons wink at me furiously as her head bobs with excitement. Her red lip-sticked mouth races into an explanation of the broach boasting on her blouse. My ears are overwhelmed by her endless story and my eyes by her glittering attire. Her rose petal nails come up to rest on her creased cheek, and I absorb her flashing figure. She is my Gigi: my great grandmother. And she is great. And she is grand.