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She doesn’t know who I am anymore. Without remembering my name she just knows I am hers, that I belong to her family. I don’t know her any more. She is in her own world to which not one of us has access. She smiles the moment she sees me and holds my hand in hers. I touch her hair, white as snow, and talk, talk, talk. No questions. Just statements. I don’t have that much to say. She marvels at the beauty of my girls again and again. She asks me how I happened to have such wonderful daughters. I tell her it wasn’t hard.

I used to call her mother when my mother was away. She often called me daughter.
Now I hold her hand and stroke her hair and feel how far away she is from me. My grandmother.

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