“Lordy, lordy,” my grandmama used to say,
and “over yonder” and “I swunny.” She was
fat and lazy and loving. Called me “Ducky Mo,”
played the piano at Sunday school, kept
her false teeth in a glass of water on
the bedside table, which I hated to see.
She liked it dark inside with the gas
heater going full blast, the dry heat
like an oven when you stepped
in the front door. She bruised easily,
my grandmama. She waddled, had silver
hair down to her waist, which she wore in
a bun. Cheap dresses. White cardigans.
In the hospital, the last time I saw her,
she looked terrible and terrified.
No photo of her survives.