Grandma, this is for you.

Amongst the Frames

Grandma, your photographs from Costa Rica, Santa Monica, Camarillo

Grandma, for Dia de los Muertos.  There you are.

Grandma, your precious young face in the nineteen twenties.

Grandma, at Big Sur in a field of poppies in the sixties.

Grandma, in your seventies, I massaged your boney, toughened back.

Grandma, your mind was strong, but your body—your body Grandma.

Grandma, they took you away in a van.

Grandma, we hiked through canyons at Bryce.

Grandma, through the forests of Olympia.

Grandma, your nicknames for me.  No one knows.

Grandma, all your stories.  You still tell your stories.

Grandma, tell me more about you, how once was for forever.

Grandma, come back once more to bake bread, to teach me.

Grandma, show my son another song on your lap.

Grandma, you are in my dreams.  You told me death was just like life.

Grandma, did it hurt much?  Were you aware we were there?

Grandma, do you speak to us?  Are we listening?

Grandma, are you here now?  Are you whispering, Grandma?

Grandma, do you cook for Grandpa?  Does he practice violin?

Grandma, are your headboards made of gold?  Do you clean house?

Grandma, do you plant zinnias, iris, gladiola, daffodils?

Grandma, does Grandpa miss his white peaches on the porch?

Grandma, do you go on walks with him?  To the beach?

Grandma, I take walks with you.  Through the cemetery.

Grandma, you ride with me on the bus.  You were in the garden.

Grandma, I made a sculpture with wings.  Your mouth was open.

Grandma, you were singing.  You were an angel.

Grandma, everyone is dying.  Everyone.  Your great grandchildren.

Grandma, their baby fingers poke through the blanket that you knit.

Grandma, forever?  Your leaving has made me weep.

Grandma, they don’t know you.  You are amongst the frames.