Her white hair tracing her forgotten youth,
She stands there, strong and unmoved,
Praying for more courage and determination,
Trying hard to hold back pride.
She used to hold me in her arms decades ago,
Little me, clutching onto her dress so tight,
Leaning on her strength and wisdom,
Shamelessly, a child always asks for guidance.
But a child grows old and big,
Lives many years and holds many younger ones,
Guiding and protecting, a child grows to be proud,
And a child someday returns to being a child.
She holds in disappointment of her age,
The feeling of being unable to do certain things,
She used to do so easily before,
Letting me take charge and return the favor.
“Am I troubling you?” she asks softly.
I shake my head. No, not to me or my sister.
As my sister goes to prepare grandmother’s nightgown,
I grab the shampoo and start washing her hair.
This is what true love is like.