| She looks up at me as she walks down the hall
her dark dyed hair almost "crinkling" as a result of the youth gone from it, and the preservation of color at the expense of life in the hair down to its roots. and her haggard soul smiles; at me, her grandson; And yet it's not my grandmother; but perhaps I remind her of her grandson. And her eyes meet me, as they often do, and she smiles. And she says "tsh," and she waves a hand with a laugh, as though she were embarassed about being unable to express something that I could not understand- like my grandma did. She wants to tell me things, wanted to tell me things, but doesn't know how, and doesn't know how to make me understand, so only accepts the breach of understanding that seperates myself from her, although a hollowness in her bones makes it want to go away. But there is no recourse. And she says "tsh" and waves her hand and averts her head, only to smile and gaze my way once more. |