I love these flowers!
They are there,
still and quiet,
by the side of the road.
You know, my granny loves flowers.
She has the most beautiful ones in her front and backyard.
I used to sit on the swings in her yard,
swinging, singing, playing.
She is the
She cooks delicious Pasta Schuta,
bakes our favorite cake (it’s named after her: Omakuchen!),
irons and fixes all of our clothes,
tells compelling narratives (hers are all real, even though they sound made up!),
supports us through prayer, calls, notes, bank notes.
She’s perfect, I’m telling you.
She even smells like a granny:
Like condiments, sweet fruit, tea, detergent, age, and wisdom. Like the perfect granny.
And my granny loves all the things that live.
And from whom.
She’s a dictionary.
She says she will study biology in her next life.
She says she believes in eternity.
My granny is oh, so wise.
And these flowers remind me of her.
I don’t notice them often enough,
just as I don’t call my granny enough.
Even though I appreciate both of them so much!