Gram, Remembered

Her cool hand on
My fevered head
A soft smile and
A soothing touch.

Church on Sundays
All dressed up, “Sit still
And we’ll get candy”
Her voice
Beautiful, when she sings the hymns.

In the kitchen
Baking pies. Flour and shortening
Transformed, like magic.
Dough scraps and jelly become tarts
For the helpers.

A little older
It’s shopping and lunch and
“Don’t tell Grampa!”
But we did, and he grumbled,
Then laughed when we modeled.

The weekend’s over
Now we’re clinging and
Crying, and begging.
“We don’t want to go”
Because to us, this was home too.

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