When I'm 95

Last week, my grandmother turned 95.  For the last few years I have had a work in progress poem, progressively titled 'When I'm 92...93...94' and this year, I finally settled on the lines.
Happy Birthday Grandmom, I'm sure Mom will print this out for you.

When I'm 95, I want to be like you.
I want to be alive!
I want independence, children whose successes outweigh mine,
and grandchildren I can sip whisky with.

When I'm 95, I want to be like you.
I want to be a good storyteller.
But really I would settle for the stories. They are what define you.
The one of bread handed over a fence, a proud little red wagon, or how a pair of pants set you free.
Or how you picked up coal from the train tracks, your adventures at the cannery, and how much you loved selling stationary at the five and dime.

When I'm 95, I want to be like you.
I want to have found love. I want to have given all of mine and have it be enough.
I want to know the secret of a long happy marriage.
I want friends. Friends who truly know me, and after decades, it would be hard not to.
I want a family. Like yours, a family who can look past differences and distances. Family that can come together without quarrel, pretence, or shame.

When I'm 95, I want to be like you.
I want to know joy and sorrow, success and failure. I want to know what life truly is and understand the sacrifices it requires. I want the strength to make them. 

When I'm 95, I want to be like you.
Well, I'd like to be like you now.
Mostly, I want your generosity.  
When I come over, you never fail to shower me with, well, whatever you have. Doubtless, you would give me anything you owned if I needed it.
But, little do you know that I am satisfied now by what I have always been. A coke and a handful of M and M's. A taste of your unfailing love, and a good story, of course.

When I'm 95, I want to be like you.
I want to embody these traits of yours,
to be your carbon copy.
Because I know that when I am 95, I will want to have you.