I Wish I Could See Her Again

Grandma Dot slumps in her chair in the kitchen Like a rag doll that’s lost her stuffing. I remember when her black curly hair Waited in curlers to spring forth. Grandma Dot would spring Into the kitchen in the house on Stuart Circle Her toes in hose Peeking through her pink slippers Peddle pushers keeping her young She made the best vegetable soup, But for breakfast she shoved Raisin Bran down my throat. I hated raisins. She and Grandpa said it’d help me To poop. Tucked in our twin beds Nicholas and I listened As Grandma Dot Blue pants White shirt Told us a story. My Strawberry Shortcake PJ’s. The night light a beacon on the shore My Grandma’s face our boat Lit up to tell us The saga of the squirrel. We are a creative family. Grandma Dot has strokes. I see her everyday, But she is in a shell. Her face isn’t a boat It’s a saggy chunk of play dough. metaphor She repeats hellos. She forgets goodbyes. She asks the same questions. Same questions. Today I’ll see her at dinner. I’ll laugh with her When we stick out our tongues And make funny faces Like a miracle on 34th Street. I’ll look in her eyes And I’ll see her as she is. She isn’t a ghost yet. She’s a grandma in a shell. She’s my Grandma Dot.