My Grandmother's House

Two little rooms in a little apartment,

With little windows and little doors

And the littlest lady of them all,

Sitting, feet barely touching the kitchen floor.

Knitting little sweaters for little children

With eyes of blue and hair the color of wheat,

As they sprint across the narrow hallway

In the midst of that summer’s heat.

She poured us warm chamomile tea

And sliced freshly baked bread and butter.

Little feet dangled off the chairs

As we dipped our fingers in palettes of watercolor.

When the wind rose in the afternoon sun,

We put our little shoes on and sprinted down the stairs

Tripping around corners as we missed steps

But as long as we didn’t bleed, we didn’t care.

And in the garden we picked white mushrooms,

Daisies and weeds, for there was nothing that grew

That wasn’t pretty. The swings were rusty

But still they swung, little feet against the sky’s blue.

When we tired, we sprinted up,

Feet muddy and hands latching on

To petals and stems, tiniest gifts.

“Grandma will love these. Faster! C’mon.”