Grandmother, I never knew you.
I was but a fledgling when you flew
the nest. But I remember your little
white house, set lower than the highway—
the highway that is now no more
than an extended drive. And I remember
the precious old flour bin you said was mine.
But mother never agreed, and claimed
it as her own. I see your white-topped
head, lying on pale sheets, but the face
is gone, and there are no pictures
to remind me. But your blood flows
through my veins, and across the years,
I feel a connection to that other life.
Jean, at 80, has been writing poems since she was 18. For 25 years she published a popular poetry quarterly of up to 100 pages, with a subscribership of nearly 500. Illness in 1986 ended the magazine. She currently publishes, by email, a 2-page monthly of clean humor. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.