Gracie at Eighteen - April 15, 2026

Gary Hunter
Apr 15
1 min read

in the early years when

I would approach, she’d spring

like a rabbit and scrabble away

every leg, frantic on the

the wood floor, slipping to gain

footing like a hotrod burning rubber

before peeling away

her little game

of catch me if you can

now wobbly, deaf and blind,

her eyes gaze at something

that’s not me or this world,

a dark silent universe

she is careful to traverse

with a little heart needing

a lift off the bed

a gentle push towards food

and a long kiss I make sure

is resting on her forehead

as I whisper those words

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