Red shoes, a scarlet dress, flaming hair and crimson lips; she is a woman I’ll never forget. Her very presence exuded passion, so it is no wonder she loved red so much. The way her dress billowed with every single stride turned every head towards her. She was no peach, though. She was as strict as she was affectionate and she was as genuine as she was fierce. She spoke her mind and did not let anyone bring her down. She would fight other’s battles before fighting her own. Steeled by a harsh childhood and a harsh life, she was prepared for whatever came her way. I can recall the day when I came to admire her so: it was a Sunday, I think I was five years old at the time: I was pushed by some kids, fell down and scraped my knee and I started bawling right there on the ground. She came to me, face stern as ever, and asked: are you a baby? Still crying, I denied. No? – She continued – Are you a man? To this I agreed. Then she told me, and I quote: Real men do not stay crying on the ground; they stand up, clean themselves up and they fight on. She could’ve waited a year or two before dropping that bomb on me, but I’m glad she did it then because, at that moment, I stood up; cleaned myself up; and fought on. I was so young and I had much to prove to her. I’d stand up straight for her. I’d be solemn for her. I’d be an adult for her. I longed for her strength; I yearned for her courage and I coveted her fire. I think that the thing I admired most is that she did not change until the very end. I find it a little strange that her stubbornness was not enough to outlive us all. Grandmother, I hope you are watching. I’ll be strong for you, for me and for everyone around me. You opened up my eyes to many things. Love, fortitude, and life itself don’t mean what they meant before thanks to you. The one thing I know for sure is that I’ll remember you, for always, by your red shoes, your scarlet dress, your flaming hair and your crimson lips. You are a woman I’ll never forget and I promise that I’ll find you as soon as I can.
And here, you would think
And here, you would think you're describing a beautiful stranger, speaking metaphorically. And then it turns sweet and truly personal. Beautiful writing is made of that.