Words etched in memory a crumpled old page

Words etched in memory, a crumpled old page,

my grandmother’s voice, carrying wisdom of age.

Her soft-spoken phrases, like birds from a cage,

brought comfort and warmth, like a comforting wage.

"Life isn’t a race, it’s a walk through the mist,"

I hear her say now, each syllable kissed.

In moments I’m lost, her meaning persists,

a lesson revealed, like shadows that twist.

Regret fills the space, where time plays its game,

yet now I can see, how the past speaks my name.

With every small heartache, her truth stays the same,

as echoes of love turn the mundane to flame.