Black charcoal and white hot ash.
I watch as she toils over the well-worn stove.
Her movements restricted.
Her hearing impaired.
Her speech lacking in life.
Her pride,
however,
intact.
As a proud woman who devotes her life to keeping the house in order.
She will clean.
And cook.
For as long as she lives.
Her stubborness translates into a perfect bowl of chicken soup.
She feeds my soul.
My grandma.
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