She smiled at me when I was born.
Helped me learn to read.
She was the one there when the world fell apart.
And with me when it came together again.
Almost mother like, in a sweet, old kind of way.
She makes me laugh with her stories.
And she makes me cry with her woes.
But she always has those stories.
I want to write them for her.
Show her just how much she means to us.

Strangers love her.
Just sit down and want to tell her everything.
The love her aura, her look.
That kind, soft, weathered look only the best can achieve.
Does she see the changes she inspires?

Sit down to talk with her and she'll tell me everything.
May be something I've heard enough times to recite back,
Or it may be something new.
It doesn't even matter.
I still want to listen.
We have our laughs and we have our sobs,
But it's the together part that matters.
How many more times will we have?

I aim to make her proud,
With everything I do.
I know she loves me through it all though.
And I want to share every moment with her.
Whether its a coffee or a life time's thoughts.
She always has the time to give me.

I talk about her all the time.
People always want to hear more.
'She seems a role model for you' I've heard them say.
But does she realize that?
The extent of how she helps?
She puts color into a white-washed world.
From her curlers to her dancing and everything in between.
Crazy, some might say she is.
But is it crazy? Or a relaxed joy for life?

I struggle to put into words what she means to me.
To us, to the world.
We each have those people.
Those guardian Angels we couldn't live without.
Mine comes in the form of a great grandmother.
Thank the Lord for sharing her with us.