Monday, April 25, 2011

come....

I have only one fragment memory of my grandfather.
He is sitting in a huge overstuffed armchair, his face warm and kind.
"Come, grandpa's girl," he coaxes.
I see my little self hanging back shyly in the doorway of the kitchen.
The memory of his love is as sweetly tempting now as it was to my childish heart.

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