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                Every morning, I waited to hear the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. The sound ensured me she was awake, and told me it was time for me to run to her and tell her good morning. Every night, I’d wait in my room and force myself to stay awake, since I refused to sleep without her tucking me in. Even though I was only 2 years old, I’d always look forward to sipping coffee with her as we enjoyed the fresh breeze of New York City in front of her petite window. She’d always take me to the park with a handful of bread for me to help her feed the birds. Every time she put on her brown strapped sandals, I knew it was time for the two of us to take a walk in the city. As if it were yesterday, I still remember the smell of her warm and delicious home-cooked meals calling my name from her tiny kitchen. Every time I’d take a nap, she always woke me up with either a new dolly she made for me, or an elegant bracelet she had made from her leftover jewels. Despite her arthritis, she always fought the pain in her hands to teach me how to draw, help me write the alphabet, or even to simply brush my hair. Even when we moved to Florida, the memories she had brought to me as a toddler still followed me as a kid. Today, we are so many miles apart, and I know I can never re-live those memories or feel like her only daughter again. And now as I stand here as a young adult, all I really wish for is my grandmother back in my life.

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