Most of them hug me, giggle,
Clamor for attention,
Beg for stories, expect treats.
Want to sing and sleep over.
In their world I build tradition;
I am Thanksgiving and Christmas,
A memory-maker serving cookies with praise.
Encouraging their ambition.
To them, I'm slow, old-fashioned.
A helper of homework who speaks strange words..
They tell me I sound "cool."
In their unstable world,
I offer things that rarely change.
In them I see myself;
Two have my turned-up nose,
Another my moodiness, my laugh,
One has my passion for music.
Still another, my fascination with words,
Some gather friends like flowers,
A mirror of me.
Each one is a reflection of hope,
making rainbows where their own light shines.
In this complicated world I look to them with pride,
They look to me with trust.
This cherished brood is my treasure.
I call them precious.
They call me Grandma.
Author Unknown
