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I grew up with only one grandmother, my father’s mother, my pog. Both of my grandfathers had died when my parents were children. My pog was a force to be reckoned with. She had many grandchildren. We only had her. We raced each other to be by her side, to hold her hands, to sit at her feet, to be bathed in her scent, Tiger Balm and medicinal herbs. I knew the feel of her hand, dry like paper, fingers strong and straight, blue veins like rolling vines soft underneath her skin. I knew her voice, too, rough and low, steady and slow.
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