April Fox

I wrote this almost three years ago, after visiting my grandpa in the house he had shared with my grandma. Her chair was in the same place it always was, empty now; the cookie jar still sat on the top of the baker’s rack and I was afraid to look and see if the cookies in it then were the same ones that had been there the last time I was there. The house still smelled like Grandma. What really got me, though, was seeing her slippers under the bed, as if they were waiting for her to walk back in and slip them on. “You caught me in my housecoat,” she might say, fussing with her hair. “I slept in a little late today.”

I don’t know if anything could make me miss her any more, or less than I do right now. 

tell me your stories again

please
the one about driving through the desert
the one about walking home from school
over the big bridge in oil city
for lunch
the one about your sisters
taking tap dancing lessons
tell me the one about meeting grandpa
for the first time.

tell me 
please 
the ones i never got to hear 
what you felt the first time you held your first child 
how you managed on your own 
when your world fell apart 
tell me what you thought 
when i was born.

tell me that you notice 
that our hands are the same 
tell me that you see me 
in dresses shaped 
like ones you wore 
when you were where i am.

tell me you need to get your hair cut 
tell me you’re working a crossword 
tell me grandpa buys too many things 
just because they’re buy one get one free.

tell me you’re making stuffed dates 
and stroganoff 
tell me you finished a meal 
and didn’t just pick. 
tell me no one had to feed you. 
tell me no one saw you 
in your housedress 
hair uncombed 
at 4 pm. 
tell me that you’re up 
please. 
tell me that you see me 
tell me that you know me 
tell me that you won’t let them take you away 
tell me 
please 
that your slippers are still under the bed 
because you’ll be back 
when i wake up.