for you, Grandma 

 

there’s a line i can draw 

ink or graphite on a map 

that stretches from where 

i was born to where you were 

 

it’s a pleasant afternoon drive 

for places neither of us are anymore 

but before the sun sets i can take 

roads to the place you are now 

 

there are roads i have memorized; 

their curves, their cracks, their rhythms 

they take me to you; i’ll never forget them 

not the turns, nor the speeds so capricious 

 

i’ll drive them in my sleep one day 

my dreams tricking me for just 

a few hours where you are still there 

and i’ll wake with tears and a smile 

 

there are roads you drove 

me in the backseat, wide-eyed 

at the sights as they pass, listening, 

rapt as you tell me their stories 

 

that house- its stone is from the creek 

the flower- it’s Queen Anne’s lace 

but wait- it’s Black-Eyed Susan 

and next to it- a Tiger Lily 

 

some way down the road 

there is a hill, a river below 

a house sits on the hill, a light 

once lit, always remembered 

 

i stood atop the hill, looking, 

thinking, imagining the years 

that went by and the lives that 

the river saw, that it freed, that it took 

 

there is a line you can draw 

from your name to mine 

in red pen, and that line will 

look like the blood we share 

 

you are more to me than blood 

you are the flowers i see along 

roads i take to see you and 

the things i learned by listening 

 

you are the comfort of the gentle 

ripples of a lake as it laps the shore 

you are the life i witness in the 

stone-built houses and the flowers 

 

you are the content light of an 

afternoon spent talking about anything 

or everything we stumble upon 

at a cloth-laced table that’s seen use 

 

so yes, there is a line you can draw 

it goes from me to you, in blood or 

on a map, taking me straight to 

you, dearly beloved, you