Growing up we spent every summer at Great Grandma’s,
usually in the pool, splashing and playing.
My father would be grilling while she made sides,
moving around the kitchen with a grace that never faded.
I still remember the smell of her rosemary potatoes,
her brown sugar carrots.
I try to replicate them but it’s never the same.
The adults would eventually pull us from the pool,
ignoring our cries for more fun, for “one more jump.”
We loved being in the water,
I loved being in the water.
My mother would fill my plate,
making sure I got my vegetables and not just chips.
Sitting my plate down at the table,
I would ask her for coffee milk.
(As a proper Rhode Islander.)
I’d look out the window as I ate,
watching the birds and squirrels roam her yard.
The crab apples were always falling from the tree.
Once I finished my dinner,
I would ask Great Grandma for a cookie.
She always kept my favorite in the freezer,
at least in the summer.
I wish we could go back to those days.
I was happier and unaware of death.
I still had my great-grandma.
About the Poet
Alysa Thompson comes from a family of writers and has grown up with a desire to continue that tradition. If she isn’t writing, then you can find her curled up with her animals and taking part in some kind of art project.
About the Author
