My Sweet Little Granny

During 1913 was her advent—
Woodrow Wilson was president.
Born in Estill to Ned and Fannie
Was Florrie Sanders—aka Granny.
A pleasant soul and generous heart,
With a love to set her apart.

Born cripple (no purpose plain),
Her determination would never wane.
Strong. Gentle. Determined. Kind.
Granny had a positive mind.
As independent as could be,
She fought her disability.

Young, single and alone,
Raising children of her own—
She cooked, washed, smoked her pipe,
Swept mopped and never griped.
She sewed. Quilted. And would chat.
But Granny was much more than that.

Graciously, she watched us play—
Though she never played that way.
Her legs impaired, she wasn’t fazed,
But used a cane all her days.
She couldn’t work, nor hold a job—
Surviving at the mercy of God.

She wasn’t learned, but knew her stuff,
Hanging tough, for it was rough.
A poor soul who never complained,
But lived within her meager range.
Her laughter echoed with true joy.
We all loved her—girl and boy.

Yes, Granny was unique, and thus—
A precious gift God sent to us.
But like the countless who’ve passed on,
My Granny, too, is now gone on.
(Revised 2/3/2018.)

© walterrean Salley