Grandma’s House

My earliest memories are of my Grandma’s kitchen.

She would make me a concoction of poached eggs, saltine crackers, and butter for breakfast.

I loved every bite of it.

Each holiday, she would set up a festive display on top of an old stereo that doubled as a buffet.

There was never a speck of dust.  Anywhere.

I played in her make up.

I could fall asleep anywhere.

I have a hard time remembering her voice.

But I can still hear her call my name.

Or Grandpa’s.

Sometimes, I smell her perfume.

If I think about her too long…I still cry.



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