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When I was six

my grandmother walked

like a lady,

even when she bent

to hold my hand.



When I was ten,

only four years later,

she wasn't as graceful.

Her grip on my hand wasn't as firm.



When I was fourteen,

my grandmother lay like a lady,

A pale, ghostly look to her face.

I bent to hold her hand one last time.

I was cold and limp.