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

satin-edged afternoons

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.

It stands

alone,

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.