Forty Bushels

Until I was seven years old my grandma loved me forty bushels ever day of my life. I had no idea what I bushel was, but I knew it meant she loved me a lot. A lot more than anyone probably loves me right now. I'm glad that she loved me forty bushels then, because know that particular measure of love would make me blush in front of my friends, it would make me turn my back and not hug her quite as long, it would make me wish that she loved someone else forty bushels. Because forty bushels is just to much for me. Forty bushels is embarassing, forty bushels is childish, ridiculious even. Forty bushels is what I need. I don't know quite what I would do with them, to tell the truth. But I think I would save them up until I was just sure. I hate to think about, how many bushels I used up, how wasteful I was then. Until I was seven years old I used up every single one of those forty bushels everyday, I was never frugal never put a single one away for a rainy day. Out of all of those bushels I couldn't spare one, to keep for days when bushels wouldn't be so plentiful, I was a frivilous grasshopper. And now, all of those days since I was seven years old, I have lived without a single bushel, even those given to me in her last days when I knew more wouldn't be coming, I spent on her, as if every bushel would prop her up alittle bit, teach her how to get back out of the bed. I wish that I could have just one more day of forty bushels, one day of my grandma's forty bushels could last me a lifetime, I only hope that I could store some away so that I could give someone of my own forty bushels some day. I wish that I could somehow muster enough to answer someone just how I answer her, I love you 100 bushels, because god, can 40 grow. 

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