the day
my grandma died.
I never knew her
that well.
She stayed in the kitchen
most of the time.
I can hear her
nervous laughter
floating into
the other room.
I can see her big glasses,
her fluffy gray hair,
her perfect, false teeth.
She's wringing her hands,
pruney from washing dishes.
She's shaking together
semi-sweet chocolate chips
and mini-marshmallows for me to eat
from a little blue cup.
She's turned on Curious George
for me to watch.
I smell the linens
sitting in the closet.
I smell the roast beef,
the onions and radishes -
she always put radishes in the salad.
She always drank sweet tea.
I didn't like it.
Instead, she would pour Dr. Pepper for me
in an identical, but smaller, glass.
I can almost hear her speak.
I can almost hear her say
she left the corn in the microwave
again, by accident. "My, my."
I can almost hear her
sing.