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Restoring the sense that our most precious things
Are those that do not change much over time.
No love of childhood is more sublime,
Demanding little, giving much on demand,
More inclined than most to grant the wings
On which we fly off to enchanted lands.
Though grandmothers must sometimes serve as mothers,
Helping out, or maybe taking over,
Each has all the patience wisdom brings,
Remembering our passions more than others,
Singing childish songs we long remember.
Last update: 11:31 PM Tuesday, February 28, 2006