My Grandma

My Grandma

By Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

She sat near the window,

The light fading over her shoulders,

Not one of those unlined, expressionless, face-lifted

perennially young women.

Time had sculpted her eighty-seven years,

Had etched into her being

Character,

Depth,

Wisdom.

 A Michelangelo tenderly carving into the

dormant marble of humanity and bringing forth

Laughter,

Despair,

Life.

Her hands, gnarled,

worn,

polished,

Evinced her struggle,

her toil,

her compassion.  

The fire of her eyes,

Alert,

Luminous.

Her voice, like a mellowed violin,

Soft,

Melodic,

Alive.

Slumped in her wheelchair,

Near the window in the nursing home,

The light fading over her shoulders,

She smiled

As the shadow crossed the pane.