Grandmother pushed my cuticles WAY
back with her shiny red fingernails,
so far it felt as if my nails might fall off
and I knew one day they would.
She told me stories of how Mom
rode in the Fiesta Flambeau parade,
waved to the mass of revelers, her silky
white gloves making figure eights
in the lighted night air.
Grandmother said one day I’d do the same
because I was a pretty princess, too.
Then she planted her hard-bristled brush
into my long goldilocks, ran it through
the tangle-knotted mess without hesitation,
nonplused by my grimace glaring through
the crystal clear mirror.
She just clacked those nails on the vanity,
sprayed White Shoulders in the musky air–
her breath a mix of nicotine and peppermint.
As I sat by Grandmother all prim and proper-like
(because that’s just what you did around her),
I wondered how I’d ever measure up when
all I really wanted was to bolt out the back door,
roll down their grassy hill over and over again.
Every summer my sister and I stayed (a week or two) with my grandparents who lived in San Antonio. I loved the fact that there was a hill in their backyard!
Prompt inspiration~ dVersePoets: Meeting the Bar~ Mining the Memory w/ Victoria