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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required (I hold three magic rocks in my hand Rolling them over and over and over Leaving this reality far, far behind I dream Daddy's dream, over and over and over.) My daddy talked about her. He said she was a saint, the little grandmama I never knew. She lived to eighty-seven with never a complaint that any of her dreams had not come true. She lived alone in tiny house, on widow's meager pension, through Grandpa, veteran of the Civil War. If not sufficient for her needs, I never heard a mention. She was, I'm told too proud to ask for more. Indiana to Dakota, must have seemed a dreadful ways in those years a long, long trip by train. She saw her son just two more times in those hard scrabble days, though I know how hard he tried to go again. She knew grandchildren by our pictures and there were few of those. I know she must have longed to see us all. Our daddy often told us, "We'll see how the wheat crop grows. If good crop we'll go see Grandma in the fall." But the good crops didn't happen and she died in 'twenty-eight'. My grandma is a picture on the wall. Long black dress and little prayer cap so modestly sedate, her only weather garment was a shawl. Grandma didn't have much money but she lived a sinless life. At least that's what my dear old daddy said. He wanted so to show her his dear children and his wife, but he never got enough to get ahead. When the good crops came Our dear grandma was dead. won 4th place
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