For as long as I can remember, I have always been enthralled with things of the past-clothing, music, and mostly stories. These stories came entirely from books I read and my grandmother. Out of all the great literary characters of all time, the heroines of stories have always been my favorite. From fiery characters, such as Scout and Idgie to the women that were more comfortable in the shadows like Ruth, Idgie’s softer counterpart; I have always felt somewhat of a kinship with them all. I do not consider myself girly yet I am not completely a tom boy. I feel as if I do not fit into one box. Really, I imagine that I am some lost time traveler stuck in the now when I am really supposed to be fighting for women’s rights to vote or a freedom rider, fighting for equal rights for all. I am for the meek and mild, the voiceless and powerless. You see as much as I love the same stories repeatedly, sometimes ad nauseum, real life continues to be so much better and more poignant. I hope that at the end of this life, I live on through my children, their children, their children’s children, and so on. I dream of being the old, strong-willed grandmother that tells giant tales to her grandchildren as they sit in front of me with big eyes of amazement and beg for just one more story and ask “did that really happen?” I smile, a knowing smile as the wrinkles slowly appear across my face and I say “Well, yes it happened! There was time when I fought cancer and I sent it running for the hills! I also worked to improve our hospital’s patients’ experience even though I was no doctor!” The dash in my epitaph will be one for the ages. The old woman I become will be pieces from other women before me and the memories they instilled in me. The shy little girl I was once will now be of literary legends. Courage I once read was telling your whole truth. The end of my days will be a new beginning for another girl who once had a grandmother that was a time traveler of sorts as she brought with her the past in the tales she told.