My grandmother,
she hides behind troubled eyes.
As I look behind those pale, gray eyes i realize that no one knows what troubles and treasures she hides deep in the recesses of her mind nor has anyone ever tried to unveil them.
Her precious irises tell a story of love, pain, suffering, hope, and despair.
I can see her thin, pink lip quiver whenever someone mentions how handsome my grandfather looks in that picture on her dresser.
He was so handsome.

My grandmother.
She buries her nose in fascinating books, reading from dawn till dusk to escape this sorrow-filled world.
She ascends into the creations of Nicholas Sparks, Norah Roberts, and James Patterson.
They've become her only companions.

My grandmother.
Her body, beaten and battered with age, is the carcass that carries around the soul of a survivor.
Survivor of love, loss, happiness, and pain.

Whenever i have the chance i take my grandmother by her shaking hands and pull her in close to my warm embrace and say "I love you".
She holds on so tight I can feel the beat of her heart and the warmth of her breath,
I never want to let go.
I can feel her pain and ache which makes my heart break into a million tiny pieces and I say "I love you".

My grandmother.
Her posture is slumped and slouched as a result of years of neglect and sadness.
I want to lift this anvil of pain off her back and let my grandmother stand tall and proud, finally able to wear her beautiful smile on her sleeve.
I want to see my grandmother enjoying the life she has while she still has it.

My grandmother.
She is beautiful, intelligent, wonderful, magnificent and only deserves happiness for the rest of her life, and I am determined to give that happiness to her.
She is

My grandmother.