In Your Grasp
I gave my grandma a tiny hug.
She was warm and scented.
It was a Spring day, I recall.
Just things are remembered right.
Rain was gently misting there, outside a stained glass street.
Cars on the highway journeying far, to places where there are no hugs.
They have my sympathy.
I sit in a grasp, a long embrace and remember times before.
Decadence in her arms.
My grandmothers charm is beckoning.
Hard events are lost in traction.
A boy I was, now but a man.
Yet the hug I feel, cuddles me still.
It gives my strength today.
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