To my Mamaw, Dot. I love you. This is about my grandma and my dreams.
| These Same Hands
When I was little, I lived with my grandma and grandpa. My mom died when I was three and my dad had to work, so my twin brother and I moved in with my grandparents. My grandma became like a second mother to me and my grandpa a second father.
My grandpa would sleep with my brother at night, and my grandma with me. I would intertwine my arm with hers and fall asleep. Her soft skin comforted me; allowed me to sleep. In the mornings I would wrap my arms around her, smell the coffee on her breath. My hands would feel her soft skin as she held me like a baby; she does that even now, and I’m almost 13, and I know she’ll probably always do it.
As my mother before me, I wanted to be a teacher. I liked helping others and, at that point, I loved school. A few years later I discovered that I could sing pretty well. Teaching was pushed aside, but always waiting in the wings as my back up plan.
Singing became my passion, and a few years later, I began writing. With teaching and singing not far from mind, I began writing a novel (No Title) where the main character, Hallie, is becoming a teacher, but also likes to sing.
It is with the same hands that I felt my grandma’s soft skin that I hand her my stories from different occasions. It is with these same hands that I will finish writing my first novel. And it is my dream that with these same hands I will hand my grandma my novel to read.
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