Old people mumble and snicker and stare
at the last of my lineage ‘s bright lilac hair.
If I’m the most banal of all of my kin,
at ingenuity, she’s bound to win.
I’m reluctant to ask why her clothes are so worn:
so faded and rumpled and tattered and torn.
I immure my comments between lips of stone,
for she’s flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone,
with a mind of her own and unique from the start,
the last of my grandkids has most of my heart.