In response to De’s “Gram.”
I remember you in your garden,
working with the grub hoe,
tomatoes and zucchini and long
sting beans. Fields of food you
put up every summer, the habit of
a lifetime of hardship. You grew
fruit trees and roses. We canned
jam and plums and ate strawberries
and zucchini bread and corn on the
cob with butter dripping off it.
You took us to fireworks, or we
sat on the roof and watched them
in the town below your house,
“Independence” is a good name
for a town on the Forth of July.
You and grandpa bickered with
love, cared for the dogs and cats,
took us camping sometimes. The
well water at your house was dreadful,
but we were willing to put up with it
because we loved you so, and ran
wild all summer, brown and free.
You told us about your old family
homestead in Missouri, hard to imagine.
You had Alzheimer’s last time I saw
you. You met my boy and kept asking
his name. I told you again and again,
because you didn’t remember me telling
you and you rocked him for hours.
Oh how you loved
For Quickly‘s Prompt