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To Gentry Matthew

By Neena Allie

There she was.
My grandmother.
Changing her opinion without apology to win an argument,
Standing firm as she faced the condescension
of her husband's rich relatives,
Helping her farmily survive the fire
that destroyed their business and home.
I loved her, my grandmother.
She was my comfort.

There you are.
My grandson.
Throwing your protesting two-year-old body on the floor
when Mommy says you must stay in,
Heaving the basketball at your Daddy's high hoop,
disdaining your own low one,
Pushing aside all offers of help with a new task,
determined to succeed on your own.
I truly love you, my grandson.
You are my joy.