Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore –
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over –
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
This poem describes the way I felt while listening to my grandmothers story. I beleive that my grandmother dreams was not deffered but passed on to the rest of the family to complete.