Feathered grasses float before
A chipped door, eight decades old.
Old, ornate, many-windowed:
Our house, hoard for handy-men.
I’m just six; I cross cracked tiles
To where Grandma’s washing walls.
Gray-grimed walls, once gilt-papered
Are streaked now by soap and silt.
Her hard-worked hands halt halfway –
She feels me standing; turns, and smiles.
Twice we moved; I turned eighteen.
At her table Grandma sat
All day, with Coke and Solitaire
And newspapers, most unread.
At night the windows opened
Deer approached, crickets slipped in.
I stretched to span the lamplit floor
And turned to talk with Grandma.
Missing teeth startled me,
But I recall her smile daily.
Grandma Charlotte, I miss you. May God remember you.