Writing about someone

About my grandmother
She was tall and twisted like an old tree
Life had beaten her, crippled her,
Memories of war played in her eyes
Like a constant, indelible film
Imprinted on her grey iris.
She always had a smile though,
For the kids running in the park
For the first flowers of spring
For the smell of freshly cut grass.
She was a tiny piece of human
My grandmother,
But she was a big, big woman.
She’d play nervously with her ring
When you mentionned The Old Times,
She didn’t like the past
My grandmother,
But on her face you could read
There wasn’t much of a future.