As I walk up the cold driveway, I look into a window. An old woman is knitting in her rocking chair. Her face is worn, a thousand soft wrinkles overlap each other. She lifts her hand to her face, then puts it back down. She looks out the window, her pale eyes meeting mine. Her eyes say the she has seen more than she has liked, has felt more pain in her world than mine. And yet, the room glows softly, as if happy that she is here. This is my Grandma.