POETRY | MIRIAM MANGLANI
My Granddaughter Sits on My Lap By Miriam Manglani Generations stare back at me in her eyes shaped like almonds exactly like her mother's, her father's, her grandfather's. They stare back at me in her eyes with my long eyelashes. Yes, she has my eyelashes, my mother's eyelashes too! In her eyes, I see them all. I grip her tiny hand, her dirty hand, covered with streaks of colorful marker, marvel at its softness, its sponginess — so foreign to my hard elephant’s skin mapped with my many years. She sits on my well-worn lap, my legs ache with her weight, with every soft, giggly, bounce of her. Her mother sat on it too, when I was younger, with my original knees and strong legs. She smiles at me and I smile back knowing someday she'll stand over my grave with her strong legs, almond eyes, more journeys ahead than behind, trembling and regret years away, take a good look in her eyes.
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