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Beyond the tattered doorknob
The age and peeling paint
I hear the distant echoes
But they’ve become so faint.
The door was always opened
When grandpa owned this place
And paint was never peeling then
But now I stop to trace
The passing of time’s old sands
That sleep with long ago.
I swim into the memories
As they begin to flow;
Grandma in the kitchen,
Grandpa in the barns.
I always had to visit there
And listen to his yarns,
Then grandma had her cookies,
Hugs and sweet, hot tea.
Now there’s just the peeling paint
And each special memory.
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