Gramma

Gramma would come visit on weekends.
We'd wait for the bubbles at the end of the Lawrence Welk show.
My toes would curl.
Before bed she'd play the theme to Dr. Zhivago on our organ.
Grandpap would call over and over, want her back home.
But she'd stay with us, even without a pillow.
She slept across the foot of the double bed my sister and I shared.
Saturday mornings she'd wake us
calling, "Chick-a-dees! your mothers oats is ready."
We'd eat slow with dred, knowing after breakfast
she'd make us clean the room,
even under the bed.

When Gramma was in the hospital with her heart,
I picked her some marigolds.
But she didn't want them,
She said they stank.

Her father was Serbian,
her mother Slovenian, they came over together.
When Gramma was fifteen she hid from her father in the barn
Her mom would sneak food out to her.
Her sister Daisy left home, went to Chicago
and never talked to any of them again.
The last time I saw Gramma alive she cried, "Poor Daisy"
I asked why, but she would never say.

Every morning before work I water my marigolds.
I know what she hated.

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