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Grandmother
I look at my grandmother with a feeling that can only be called reverence. As close as I am to her in blood, she is part of a world I will never know - her world of too-late is my world of never-was. Our eyes meet across three feet of space and eighty years of time.
I cannot see backwards
Her face fills the mirror
In front of me
Her skin has become living leather - not luxurious suede but hard saddle-leather, still flexible only where hard use has broken its strength. Gnarled and uneven, her face stays expressionless, and though I know she sees me, I am not sure I will ever see her. Our eyes meet through the cloud of centennial dust m





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