All posts tagged grandmother

January 31 2015

Published January 31, 2015 by April Fox

In my trunk there is a photograph
of me at age fifteen,
one of my daughter at three,
and my grandma’s cookie jar.

There is a bag on the seat
next to me
with bits and pieces of her life
taken from her bedroom.
I haven’t looked inside but I reached in and felt
a book, and I wonder
if the pages smell like her.

Her chair is in the wrong place.

Her bed is gone.

There are crumbs in the cookie jar, who knows how old, and still
I can feel her hands,
against my face
I can hear voice,
an echo
in the unfamiliar air
And I wonder if the space she left behind
will ever fill
with something else.


missing dot.

Published September 3, 2012 by April Fox

nights like this i remember
how the skin of her cheek felt like
gone through the wash
or the petal of some
unnamed flower
you might happen upon
in an otherwise
forgettable wood
on your way to someplace else
you’d rather be.

in the great big bathroom
in the great big house
where the shower held a bottle of prell
and a washcloth shaped like a mitten
i sat on the counter and
breathed in the scent of her-

she curled my pigtails
and told me i was silly
when i said i was afraid
of the toilet flushing.

i slept on the floor of her room
and listened to the gentle snore
that told me she was there.

she had a towel with tom selleck on
and a pool float, yellow
that she must have gotten just for us
i liked to put my hand over the pump
just for a second
i liked that it could not
hold me there.
she floated in the water while the sun
reflected next to her-
she smiled when i caught the lizards
climbing up the screen.

when i was bigger
though no less a child
she held my babies on her lap
and reminded me that there
were cookies in the jar-
i could never take just one
“that’s not enough,” she’d tell me
and reluctant to disappoint her
i would take two
or three
eat them slowly
to prolong the conversation
and wonder if, when i grew old
i’d be like her-
wonder if, when she was young
she was like me.

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