Grandma.

In each of her freckle

there lies a story, 

something she has yet to tell me

something she has yet to unveil.

Her heavy eyes, have borne too many dreams 

too many to reckon

but not one she dreamt for herself.

Her grey and black pastel cascade, 

still as beautiful as her aged heart,

flow below her shoulders like a fairytale

that she tucks behind in bun

just like she keeps collected from the start

all the realities that weigh her down

forming a clog in her gentle heart.
She speaks to me of the days of her past,

and narrates to me everything that makes us smile, 

but seldom does she unravel the stories 

that caused her to cry.

I have a way with reading her lightened eyes

and a way with finding words 

through her resonating silence 

and she knows I do.

So she smiles weakly and opens up to me, all through.

A mother before any other, 

her heart has been to me.

She knows the language my silence speaks.

I have always found solace in her arms

feeble, even as they are like a feather 

inexplicably somehow, 

they hold all of me together

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