My Grandmother

She is the warmth of a huge hug;                      The cool touch of a stethoscope;                             A black medical bag sitting poised on a dresser;                A clinic full of children 

She is a blue Vera Bradley purse,                        Hauled everywhere, thrown over a shoulder     With Tic-Tacs and cough drops,                          Kleenex and candy. 

She is a beautiful town in Connecticut;                      A bright white house on Washington Avenue,    With Ghostbusters gadgets and toys of tiny people, With cracked and chipped ceilings that form maps Of undiscovered new places,                                    With a table where rowdy games are played and piping hot, store-bought ramen is served.  

She is a bountiful breakfast at a diner,                           Where everyone knows her name and her friends Give kisses and slip twenties in pockets,                  Where she laughs loudly as a plate loaded with         Ice cream and waffles is pushed towards you while your parents watch in doubtful disbelief. 

She is a gorgeous gray church                                   With climbing columns that stretch to the sky and stained glass figures that stare down at you;          A rosary wrapped in her hands;                                     A powerful passion for justice rooted in religion;  A song sung loudly without pretty pitch               but still perfect nevertheless. 

She is a bound book crammed on a shelf with many more alongside it;                                               A murder mystery;                                                  An Agatha Christie;                                                 A trip to Barnes & Noble in the backseat of a bit beat-up blue Subaru. 

She is an apron and a rolling pin;                              A cluttered set of cookie cutters,                                                The sweet smell of cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning 

She is the quiet gracefulness of the doe that she rushes to catch a glimpse as it wanders past the backyard;                                                              The brightly colored birds that serenade outside her bedroom window;                                                        The majestic magnificence of the mountains and oceans of the national parks she traveled to;              The calm composure of the giraffes she loved. 

She is complex, conflicting confusion;                          Late night showers and continuous questions;         Anxiety and annoyance;                                                Forgetfulness and frustration;                                          But through it all                                                      Still knowing and loving you.    

She is gone now, but still very much present;       Dead now, but still very much alive                                In the people whose lives she touched.                     She is a marvelous multitude of many things,          But most importantly,                                               She is my grandmother,                                             And she is loved.