Pot-bellied, am I: misshapen by age and gravity – more rot than plump ripe pear – still, a vessel for love – grandmotherly vase.
The world awaits, Little One. While you slumber in your watery cocoon, loving arms ache to hold you, adoring eyes long to behold your perfection.
Tiny pink boots, with yellow ponies stomp on the doorstep announcing the arrival of a granddaughter. Wispy blonde hair gathered atop her head bobs as