Normally, when I think of the word grandmother, I imagine a sweet old lady who loves her grandchildren and gives warm hugs and always has milk and cookies to offer. That's why Caitlin Chan's poem, "Grandma", came as such a unique and refreshing surprise. It tells the tale of a woman born into a tough life with little chances of a future, working her way up as she grows, and the story continues until the woman's death, when it is said that her granddaughter is born. The poem really was a slap in the face, teaching me just how young our eldest relatives once were; how the woman who will hold your hand in her own when you cry once had nothing but a knife to do the same to. I didn't know whether to stay as choked up as I was reading Caitlin's piece or continue to feel the fierce admiration I had for this strong woman I so stereotypically imagined as a cookie-baking old lady. The lines, "…when she was 14/she learned to handle a knife/And slept with it clenched in her left hand," especially struck something deep in me. There is just something about a child, a young girl, a fourteen-year-old, out there by herself sleeping with a knife that hurts your heart. By the end of the poem, when this girl became a young mother, prided herself in her sixteen-year-old son's graduation, and was able to see her grandchild (presumably the author, Caitlin) before her death at just sixty-four, I felt a whole flurry of emotions because this woman really is a hero and this poem is just perfection. It's written beautifully, with emphasis on little details that produce such vivid images (like "lukewarm milk in Budweiser bottles"), and I honestly loved every word.