When you call me Grandma

 When you call me Grandma,

something inside me softens in a way
I didn’t know was still possible.

I have lived whole lifetimes before you—
worked, worried, carried burdens,
learned how to let go of things
I once thought would last forever.

And then you arrived.

Small hands.
New breath.
A love so quiet it startled me.

I watch you sleep
and remember the nights I stayed awake
with your parent in my arms,
afraid I would do it all wrong.

Now I know better.

Love isn’t perfection.
It’s presence.
It’s showing up again and again
even when your knees ache
and the years are written on your face.

When you reach for me,
I feel time fold in on itself—
my past, my present, my prayers
all resting in your tiny grip.

They call me Grandma now,
but what I really am
is a woman who has learned
that love doesn’t fade with age—
it deepens.

And I will hold you
as long as these hands remember how.