Here’s a short piece. The poem focuses on a grandmother woven together from memories of my two grandmother’s, both amazing, wonderful women. I miss them.
Her books line the shelf
like old soldiers, leaning on each other,
on large candles, and a bookend
shaped like Winston Churchill,
it’s forehead cracked when dropped
years ago, some forgotten age.
She asks me to find the old hymnal,
heavy with her faith:
page 86, Amazing Grace.
Softly, we sing together until
the kettle’s shrill voice trumps ours.
Only then could I eat the cookie
left waiting for me near the stove
on a green napkin.