by STEPHANIE VON BULOW - November 21, 2020
Unlike many kids,
I never got to visit Grandma’s house.
She lived too far away,
8,500 miles to be exact.
Sunday afternoons weren’t spent
laughing and cooking with Grandma.
Not Grandpa either;
he too was far away.
Now they’re here,
8 miles to be exact.
And every Wednesday is in fact
filled with laughter and cooking.
The stale scent of Grandpa’s cigars
the sweet linger of Grandma’s perfume,
both fill my nose as I arrive.
At last, Grandma’s house.
I may not be a child;
this may not be a childish memory,
but as I age,
one day it will be.
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