Five years of age. You watched me from the balcony as I played in the backyard picking daisies and chasing butterflies. You gazed at me lovingly with a beaming smile upon your face. Your elegant features, serene and striking, and your greying hair tied up in a bun. Your sun kissed chocolate skin glowing in the afternoon sun. I smiled back at you, feeling so free as your presence filled me with the most beautiful essence of joy.
As I ran happily through the grass, a bee stung my foot and I yelled out in pain. You came to my rescue, lifting me into your loving home. I cried in your warm embrace as you sang a sweet Samoan lullaby and rubbed ointment on my aching foot.
Eight years of age. Your smile turned into an expression of defeat and sorrow as you battled illness. As I read one of my favourite stories to you-Jack and The Beanstalk, I yearned for you to smile. You only looked at me with tired and helpless eyes, unable to speak. I touched your hands, no longer full of warmth but hard with an unfamiliar coldness. Your face still the epitome of love. As you slept I sang for you, your lullaby. I miss you, grandma.
What am I most grateful for? To be loved.
Curly Miri © 2012