Grandma Dot slumps in her chair in the kitchen
Like a rag doll that’s lost her stuffing.
I remember when her black curly hair
Waited in curlers to spring forth.
Grandma Dot would spring
Into the kitchen in the house on Stuart Circle
Her toes in hose
Peeking through her pink slippers
Peddle pushers keeping her young
She made the best vegetable soup,
But for breakfast she shoved
Raisin Bran down my throat.
I hated raisins.
She and Grandpa said it’d help me
To poop.

Tucked in our twin beds
Nicholas and I listened
As Grandma Dot
Blue pants
White shirt
Told us a story.
My Strawberry Shortcake PJ’s.
The night light a beacon on the shore
My Grandma’s face our boat
Lit up to tell us
The saga of the squirrel.
We are a creative family.

Grandma Dot has strokes.
I see her everyday,
But she is in a shell.
Her face isn’t a boat
It’s a saggy chunk of play dough. metaphor
She repeats hellos.
She forgets goodbyes.
She asks the same questions.
Same questions.

Today I’ll see her at dinner.
I’ll laugh with her
When we stick out our tongues
And make funny faces
Like a miracle on 34th Street.
I’ll look in her eyes
And I’ll see her as she is.
She isn’t a ghost yet.
She’s a grandma in a shell.
She’s my Grandma Dot.