I would draw what I know of my grandmother.

Her small body, forever growing smaller, being carried around the house.
Her wrinkled skin over my arms.
The smell of that wrinkled body.
The water falling over us. The cleanliness. The soap.

The texture of whatever is forever lost.

The gasps produced by my lungs.
The revulsion towards her old body.

Her crooked fingers. Her crooked lips. Her crooked hairline.
Her crooked memory.

Everything I could be, lost to the battle inside her brain,
and , because of that, everything I could have been,

I almost hated her through whatever made us family.

Coefficient of relationship, they call it.