For my Grandmother, at Christmas

I still miss her
bizarre gifts —
the strange ornaments,
half-price lotion,
those odd embroidered towels.

They remind me of a time
when my grandma
could fix anything I had broken —
betrayed trust,
shattered confidence,
scattered pieces of a fragile heart.

She never once wavered
over the task at hand.
When asked, she always helped —
as long as I gave her
a wide roll of my time,
so she could wrap me
in love.


2 thoughts on “For my Grandmother, at Christmas

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