My grandmother had the loveliest grey eyes. Growing up, there wasn’t a thing in this world that felt better than being the focus of her watch.
She kept the first poem I ever wrote inside a little knick-knack box in her living room. I was seven, and the poem was terrible.
Any time I struggled with anything, she would pull that old poem out and remind me that words were always enough.
I’m still learning my way with them, but I dedicate every word I write to that beautiful woman with the grey eyes.
Rachel Olene Woodard