This isn’t about the curtains.
(Lacy, fluttering in a lazy afternoon
breeze.) Not really. And it’s not about
the pale porcelain bowls
or the way plain old
vanilla ice cream tasted
better out of them than at home.
It’s not about her cherry trees
or the sugared pies that followed.
Or the broken 4th step or the hard
Christmas candy in the parlor
that might have been there
since 1943. Or the giraffe she
brought home from her trip to Africa.
Or the way she later forgot my name,
thought I was my mom.
It’s about the palest blue eyes,
……….and the way she smiled.
Quickly in November (day 11) has prompted us to go ‘way back’ and write about a memory, but focusing on a specific detail. This somehow became an amalgamation of both of my maternal great-grandmothers, both of whom passed away early in my childhood.