Nana’s House
Saturday’s at Nana’s
taste like Oreos
and Coke and Cheetos
and every other thing I shouldn’t
have too much of
Saturday’s at Nana’s
look like opening a new toy
every week and every week
acting surprised
and every week she acts like
she doesn’t know I’m waiting
for the present
Saturday’s at Nana’s smell like
heavy perfume
that she always put on too thick
and bologna frying in a pan
waiting to be placed on
two pieces of white bread, open-faced
Saturdays at Nana’s sound like
a worried question, every-checking on me.
Am I okay, am I safe? Did I know
she wouldn’t be around much longer,
that she’d be taking her trip soon, the
one you can’t come back from?
Didn’t I know I should appreciate her
while she’s still around?
And me, laughing,
Silly Nana, didn’t she know
she would be around
forever?
Like that? You might like my newsletter. Subscribe here to keep in touch, and you’ll be the first to know about future writing projects.
Grace Moore is a writer from Washington. She writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and the occasional poem. She also writes articles on travel, mental health, writing, and books. Sometimes she’s funny, or at least that’s what her mom says. Follow her on Instagram @gracieawriter.
