Hair curlers, the kind with bristles
that poke the skin of your hands as
you roll it back and forth and back —
she slept in them every night
along with her white nightgown,
printed with flowers, reaching to the floor
covering soft skin that smelled of baby powder
And then there is her name tag
for the job she worked until
she was too sick to go on
and for a little longer than that besides
now I keep it in a draw with my jewelry
because Grandma loved to work
loved it, I think, more than
almost anything else
And then there are the coffee mugs
mismatched, in every size and style
overflowing cupboard shelves, stacked
one on top of another.
I take a few to keep in my own kitchen
I pour my coffee into one each morning
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Grace Moore is a writer of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Her interests include travel, reading, and doing any activity that involves supplies from the craft store. She lives in Washington with her husband, where they can often be found discussing Doctor Who in-depth. Click here to sign up for her newsletter and get a free guide to overcoming writer’s block.