Grandma

The skin of an oak

reminds me of your hands,

the bark a mottled brown.

It will be Halloween soon.

The best, standing at your front door

a mean pirate of me at six-years-old,

saying trick or treat with my sisters at my side,

both ballerinas.

You pretended to not know us

until we said grandma, silly grandma.

The years leave like pigeons.

The last note I wrote you said good morning.

It was on the back of an old grocery receipt.

It has been many days of oatmeal without you.

You were the steady in my life; face forward, lit,

five feet of God whispering the miracle will come.

I pull my boots on, black leather with a silver buckle.

I listen for you. The little dogs are playing in the next room.

Without them it is silent like stocking feet in thick carpeting.

I wait for you to brush my morning, soft bristle, long handle,

the cake risen. I dream this.

I am no longer afraid, grandma, to step from the house,

motor down the road, go grocery shopping for cashews.

I hear you in the evening. The sky is not crowded.

I say moon and you say yes. I say love and you say always.

I say star and you say plenty. I say I miss you and you say

you aren’t gone.