every night, as the quiet darkness blankets the house, i make my way to my grandmother’s room. her television casts a soft, flickering glow. i turn it off and adjust the air conditioner. before i leave, my grandmother extends her frail hand, the skin like fragile parchment, seeking mine. she kisses my hand. it is the tenderest peck possible, a whisper of affection that transcends words. her eyes meet minewith smiles.
as i wonder
how many stars are in the sky
time stands still