Granny was ancient-looking for as long as I knew her. Born in 1886, she was almost 81 by the time I was born. Skin the color of pecans, but wrinkled rather like prunes, she had more skin than flesh beneath it. Soft skin that hung off her bones as she hugged me or tickled my feet with gnarled hands. I have a distinct memory of watching her roll her flaccid breasts that reached her waist to fit them in her bra one morning. Both amusing and repulsive to a young girl. I wondered to myself if they had once been rather like cantaloupes rather than deflated bicycle tires. I suspect I sent up a prayer that my boobies never got so big that they looked like that when I got old. (Didn’t realize that one day I would wish for cantaloupes instead of the peach pits I grew instead.)

I had Granny for 15 years. I didn’t spend a lot of time with her – my parents divorced when I was five and she was my dad’s great-grandmother – but I have myriad moments imprinted in my memory – like Granny letting my cousin and I taste her apple tobacco. Must taste like apples, right? Not. (She also had a shot of whiskey on cold nights and smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes. And yet, she lived to the age of 96.) My favorite memory, though, is of Granny sitting in the kitchen for hours. Although part of the reason was to stay warm – she was always cold, even in the heart of summer – it was also to cook. She made the best collard greens, fried chicken, corn bread and grits (not all at the same meal). My mother tried to replicate the grits. I ate them, but, with a child’s honesty told her they’re not like Granny’s. Not even close.

What I remember most fondly is her seven-layer yellow cake with lemon glaze. It would take her most of an afternoon to make. She would sit in the chair closest to the oven, a big bowl on her aproned lap. No electric mixer for her, with a wooden spoon she beat everything by hand. When my son was young and I was making birthday cakes I finally found a recipe for lemon glaze that sent me back to that kitchen, sitting on a chair, legs swinging, watching Granny, listening to her humming a hymn or telling me a story.

Even now, every time I taste it, I close my eyes and think of Granny.

if you look closely

beneath the calm surfaces

of oceans painted by the moon

a glistening dark blue

like if insanity was a place

you can see the scars

in my colorblind eyes

where i once carved

her ethereal beauty

with the sharpness

of nights i had dreamed of her

and the nights i didn't

if you listen closely

to white edges of blue waves

where the waters once kissed

the roughness of the cliffside

standing alone again and again

you can hear my heartbeat

slowing down

and underneath my breath

your name pierces my tongue

until pain had lost its meaning

my reflection on the waves

trying to find myself

- deathetix

your high tops

still sit

by the

laundry room door

from the day

we both

danced down the street

as it poured

our fingertips

wrinkled

along

with our eyes

as you

spun me

around beneath the

lavender sky

now i’m staring

at your

sneakers,

daydreaming of you,

and loathing

this cloudless

sky of

saudade blue

XXX,

coldfront