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.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.