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Small Steps and a Prayer

            My mother and I led my grandmother as she slowly prepared herself to make the punishing trudge to our car. Out of her wheelchair, she made her first steps, her limbs already screaming for rest in just a matter of seconds. Under the ferocious hot sun, she inhaled deeply to acquire any oxygen she could get from the trees. She was clearly exhausted from the arduous walk, her legs shaking like the ones of a newborn trying to stand. Of course, I must have helped her, but my mother held me back, as once my grandmother has set her mind to do something, there was not a thing that could stop her. Who were we to hinder her from a task that would otherwise be so simple anyway?.
             Of their own accord, my eyes took on the accustomed act of watching my grandmother's small steps. I took notes of her each movement, which was not at all new to me; I have observed, learned, and mimicked her movements and idiosyncrasies many times, her powerful loving persona never becoming monotonous to me. Although this time, I was watching differently, in a way of protecting her. If she made a wrong step, moved in the wrong direction, maybe slipped When had we exchanged our roles? My grandmother had always loved and protected me, guiding me through every possible difficulty in life, making sure I passed through each complication with ease. And now, I watched her as she took a shallow breath with every step, engulfed in agony, making damn sure she would not let her pain slip by her face. Little does she know I can look through her falsified emotions.
             I almost started to hold a grudge against the woman with the pale, yet dark, skin, for coming to a halt in front of my grandmother's hospital bed. Room 1024 Bed A. Despite of my significantly young age, I eyed every detail, being able to replicate the room from just memory.

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