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My grandfather slapped my knee repeatedly
Each slap driving away a distraction
Until he had my full attention. I turned my back to the room.
He smiled, satisfied. We flipped open a photo album
Its spine creaking, its pages wrinkled from over-use.
He pointed at one coffee-stained picture
And drew a circle around a little girl with his finger.
She stood in the middle, a flower crown resting on her head
Her white dress blinding in contrast to the grey background
Her eyes framed by dark eyelashes.
Your mother, my grandfather said softly,
Was a beautiful child.