For my late Grandma, Rosamond Kearns 1914-2000
I miss your tea, apple pie and, most of all, your stories.
There you stand, small, but unshakable;
a frail willow too weak for shade,
too pale to paint,
or uncertain to dance,
but winsome and sure.
The bastion of your mind
en-routed, but disheveled,
distracted, but joyful
gropes for never-tired stories,
fondles the moments and
strains after voices of nobler days.
Your siren song,
once allergic to melancholy
whispers notelessly, looking for shape
in the notes of the long, lazy journey
back home, the place of
and doilies under teacups.
Full of happy times,
you sip the hot, sweet satisfaction
and taste yesterday’s laughter
on well-worn faces.
Today was always better than
tomorrow mirrored against yesterday.
unheralded by that which is past,
unremembered by that which will come.
Here, you can stand tall, unshakable,
stronger now because
life has steeped long enough to pour
from your well-stained cup
our well-brewed tomorrow.