the day I walked with my grandmother
I had already walked ten steps
when I turned and saw her 
she hadn’t even paced two

she swayed like a penguin
tumbling seemed like a near possibility
a squishy sashay of sorts
by the time I had counted ten in my head
she had barely reached four

she often talks about how I learnt to walk
falling flat, face first,
when I stood up for the first time
it was so easy to overcome
didn’t take years to perfect it, just some months

by the time she had reached six,
I grew impatient
I retraced to where she stood
deciding on to walk beside her
four seconds to each step
I found a rhythm to her pattern

she talked about how weak she thought she had become
about how the highs of the hills
and lows of the valleys
were once not enough to tie her down
she quipped how the city made her monotonous

the wisps of her curly hair
grayed and grazed
by the city’s own pace double exposed on hers
and while she was composing the frames right
age set in

the walk was turning into a snail glide
I think she sensed the same
she smiled (her dimples always get to me)
holding my hand she said
“It isn’t about who get’s there first
its important we reach what we set for ourself
and cherish that we made it.”

I think we found our common walking ground.


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