I miss the sound
of my grandmother's blue pumps
clicking over to the record player
& placing the needle over
Herb Albert's Tijuana Brass
She'd stand there a second-as that crisp sound broke silence
hand on her hip
eyes peering out windows through buggy brown glasses,
before kicking off her heels
and dancing over to the stove
shaking and gyrating and smiling
as she cooked us re-fried beans, and flour tortillas
carne asada
the house smelled like gardenia she picked from her garden
I wish my grandmother could still walk.
No comments:
Post a Comment