Truth is, I am always imagining her alive

Day 1 of 31 days of poetry

Photo by Michael on Unsplash

my grandmother,
the only one who understood
what it was to not crave a settled existence

Truth is, I think we had the same heart,
the same base code
the ever-restless roaming
the ever-thirsty drinking salt water
the never-ever satisfied
trying to fit our fluttering hearts
into more suitable cages

Truth is, I think that’s why she moved so often
that home was never really home,
why she was always finding faults sooner or later,

and why she told me to enjoy being single
as long as I could
I loved your grandpa, but sometimes I wish
I had waited longer to marry.

and why she was always going somewhere
money flowing through her fingers
like that could ever fill the call for more, more.

Truth is, maybe I imagine her alive
in a kinder light than she deserves