Grandma was
a weaver bird with busy hands,
always supplied with
sweet lemon drops in the glass jar
On the counter in the kitchen
Of the single wide trailer
With the dandy stripe
of swimming pool blue
In the park
on Tustin Avenue
in our town in
South California.
Grandpa was
a faded, low overstuffed chair
Facing their doilied living room
from a windowed corner
Because the view was better
looking in than out I suppose.
He was
never still
Fidgeting finger and thumb,
elbows perched on the arms of the chair.
He was
a Mister Rogers cardigan
over a belt buckled
across his humpty dumpy middle.
George Ernest and Eleanor Mae
Not fussy or pushy
Just present.
BUT Grandpa never let me kiss him
if I had kissed the cat.
Lynette Hensley
2020