My great-grandmother died when I was about five years old, when I was young, not very understanding of life and death, only to feel that this kind, loving old man left me forever. She always sat quietly cross-legged on the bed, her white hair combed to cover the post, with a black hair card on her head. Her face was wrinkled, like a yellow earth and a crack in the road, and like a calm lake, which was a mark of the years. Her face always had a kind smile; her eyes were laughing into a round of curved moons, and those eyes were always overflowing with love and tenderness. My grandfather's family has many children, every time she laughs and beckons, calls the children to come over, takes a few pieces of sugar in our hands, and then we sit around her and talk to her.
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