I don't believe
my grandmother was ever
a little girl.
Or a young lady,
or a new mother.

Instead she spent
her whole life
being a grandmother.
My grandmother.
It's the only explanation

of her expertise
in the field.
I used to love
watching her write.
Her hand, with its

knotted fingers
wrapped in shiny skin,
producing quivering,
uniform letters. And her
eyes, glassy and pleading

when i'd say,'' I need to go now'',
much like mine
when her body
said the same. When
tomorrow ceased

to extend her a hand. I
remember.
I still remember.