A poem for Grandma Beth

In loving memory of my beautiful grandmother

We journeyed to Grandma’s house,
Loading bins of toys to host beanie baby festivities,
Driving in and out of traffic, in and out of consciousness through Chicago skies
Awaiting the warm light and welcoming hug of my late-night grandma

Waking to the sweet smell of sticky buns
Squealing at her bran cereal, calling out “worms” as she poured her small glass bowl,
Circling past the dish brimming with candy corn and peanuts, snatching fistfuls,
Spying bird decor in every room, and birds and squirrels thriving beyond the glass doors.

Tight squeezes around the table, battling my brother for the coveted stool
Combing cabinets for Campbell's soup for lunch, always stocked just for me
Shenanigans with older cousins, always threatened to be exposed by our childish honesty.
Hide and seek, old school Mario, peddling the stationary bike in the shag-carpeted basement.
Begging to wake Matt up minute by morning minute.
Traversing her garden til we hit the fence, spying raspberries in the September sun.
Reading, resting in the living room after a filling Thanksgiving dinner.
Clue and solitaire with family in the evening light.

All these things were Grandma’s house. A part of me.
But more than these things or traditions, there was my Grandma Beth as I knew her:

Strong, simple, quick to laugh. 
A place of warmth and life and craft.
The glue for us all.
I wish I liked raspberries or gardening or baking bread when we were together,
But I’d like to think she’s passed these gifts to me
Over all those years,
In all that love.

From the archives, you may also enjoy:

Grandma Amie

Believe