The Keeper of Memories

Beneath the oak where shadows sway,
A grandmother sits with eyes of grey,
Her hands, though frail, still warm and strong,
Weave tales of old, where they belong.

With every wrinkle, a story lies,
Each silver thread a whispered sigh.
She beckons close with gentle call,
Her voice a breeze that dances tall.

"Come, child, sit beside me here,
Let me tell of days so dear,
Of lands that stretched beneath the sun,
And battles lost, but never won."

She speaks of times in distant years,
When life was draped in joy and tears,
Of bustling streets and summer's glow,
And secrets only we would know.

"The first time I saw your grandfather's eyes,
A spark of love beneath the skies,
We walked the fields where roses grew,
And whispered dreams, just us two."

She tells of hearts that dared to break,
Of choices made for love's own sake,
And how the years, like rivers deep,
Held memories that they would keep.

"Your great-grandmother, she was brave,
A woman strong, who knew the grave
Of war, of loss, of sacrifices made,
And how she taught us not to be afraid."

Each word she shares, a golden thread,
That ties the past with what’s ahead.
The stories fold, and then unwind,
Each lesson shared, each truth defined.

"Remember, child," she softly says,
"As time goes on, the world will blaze,
But in your heart, you must preserve,
The tales of those who dared and served."

Her voice, though soft, is filled with might,
A keeper of memories, in the night,
She passes down, without regret,
The roots of love that won't forget.

And so, she speaks of all she’s seen,
Of life, of death, of places green,
For in her words, the past will stay,
A beacon guiding the future's way.

In years to come, the child will know,
The stories shared, the seeds to sow,
For though the grandmother's time may cease,
Her stories live, and never cease.

The keeper of memories, proud and true,
Hands down the past for me and you,
Through every tale, through every rhyme,
She shapes the future with her time.

- Khushi Kaul