seams and stitching ♡ published

GRANDMOTHER'S SUMMER

grandmother is alive in the summer.
she spends her time
with her arthritic hands
buried in the earth,
sweat beading at her temples,
water-falling down the scars
last winter left.
the music is muffled and distorted
like the reflection
her mirrors sing back to her
through the cracked glass
but she tells us
she likes it that way.
when the notes and strings
and strained voices
give way to distance
like love has a tendency to do,
she lets her memory fill in the gaps.
it's not seamless,
but it's as close as we can get.
ants can be found
parading in straight lines
through the kitchen.
sometimes a few straggle
out of line and nomad their way
to the fruit on the table,
that's wrapped in tinfoil
to keep the flies from swarming.
the gnats wriggle in the screen door,
as dead as grandmother is alive.
we don't visit as much as we should.
but that can be excused
if we bring more music
whenever we decide to arrive. sometimes we come to soothe
the arthritis, but the cool soil
laced with plant roots
seems to do the trick.
the ants become smarter
as the days go by.
they find ways to wriggle
into the mangoes,
eat the sweet fruit
from the inside out,
the way grandmother
sings her memories,
like a cracked mirror
filters the sour through her throat
and we come to fill in the gaps,
the arthritis laces through her body
and we come to soothe
the hard seams
last winter left.
grandmother tells us it's a test.
the sweat water-falling in her eyes
distorts her vision,
and her ears buried in earth
muffles her hearing.
but she assures us with cool hands
and a tinfoil wrapped heart
that she will not give way to the distance she must go.
after all, she tells us as we zigzag
obstacles in the ants' path
to keep her safe,
my roots have laced through this much.
who says they can't reach farther?