i don't remember much
about grandma speed. also, for.
All rights are my own.
Driving to a yellow house shingled in brown
Entering felt like walking through a museum
Pictures of faces in frames
And you were the curator
Because everytime I’d ask
You’d remind me of my own blood behind
Every unfamiliar smile
But I don’t remember much
Furniture suited in plastic so
Uncomfortable
That we never sat upstairs
Downstairs we would flee
All four of us in our socks sizes 4-10
Where couches were couches
Sans protection
But I don’t remember much
We would fight over which game to play
Golf or bowling? Jet ski or fencing?
I never asked why you had a Wii
You never came downstairs
A part of me knew
There were few things you could do for us
But a Wii in the basement of a yellow house
Would bring all four of us down a 20 minute drive
Right to you
But I don’t remember much
I was always first to tire
Carrying myself up the carpeted steps
Following the chatter of QVC
To the table dressed in strewn newspapers
Where you would reside
There was a rasp to your throaty voice
So comforting that you gave it to your son
And his son got half
But I don’t remember much
A question about school
It was always good
Which was all I knew to say
Yet you were always satisfied
Smiling and sharing a story
That I would forget
But nod along to
Because you were always kind
And the least I could do
Was listen
But I don’t remember much
I remember that day
Over and over and over
Because that was everyday
In that yellow house
On the street past the auto repair shop
That was pink
And across from the grocery store
All the way down from the coffee shop
Straight away from Burger King
Which you would pass after the graveyard
Where you may now lay
Painlessly, I hope
Because that’s what I remember
The aches and the room you never left
Along with the silence I would keep
Tiptoeing through your halls
All while forgetting the laughter and the noise
That just years ago came so freely
I remember that much