This is not particularly a poem, but it is something while sitting alone at an airport after leaving my grandmother's house for hte second to last time. I'm posting simply in hope that it might help someone.

I said goodbye to my grandmother today just as I have for the past four years. Every time we share goodbyes I hope and pray that the next time we say hello she'll know who I am. Up until now my prayers have been answered and although she could not tell you my name, my grandmother somehow knows I'm hers. However, with each goodbye I know that the next time she will know me a little less. I think back to just six years ago, visiting the strong, independent woman I had known all of my life. I trusted my life into her hands, not realizing that just six years later it would be our hands that her life was placed. And suddenly it hits me, how can I expect for her to recognize me, when I do not recognize her? What is a person but their memories? Who is my grandmother but the woman who held our family together for so many years? Then, as if by prayer, I received an answer in the form of a conversation my mother and my grandmother were having. My mother pointed to everyone in the room and told her that, even though she may not know who they are or recognize their faces, she was a part of everyone of them. She made all of them possible. From her daughters and sons to her grandsons and daughters, everyone of us was possible because of her. My mom has often said that I am the words that help her keep going, and yet she could have no idea what her simple conversation could do for me. For I realized that even after Granny's body forgets how to run itself and her house is sold and her belongings are distributed, I will be able to see Granny. I will see her when I go to a movie with my sister, when I hang out with my cousins, even when my Uncles Bill and Dick give me a hard time, for in all of these places Granny is present. So while my grandmother may not remember who I am for too much longer, I will always remember who she is, for she is me.

MG: Welcome and Thanks for sharing such a beautiful thought.

Thank you. I'm glad to know it's appreciated. I'm only 19, so I typically don't think the things I write can impact anyone, but my family convinced me to share it. I'm glad you liked it.

Your poem of sort is wounderfull. It says a lot, and is very true. You made me think of my dads family (he is gone now), and that my aunts and uncles are part of him, and still there for me. Keep your memories strong, and just love your grandmother. We will be having a family reunion this year on the anniversary of dads death, to remember all the wounderfull thing he gave us in life. Chin up