Grandma

ANNA DELAMERCED

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I know not where it comes from

but I know who it is

or at least, I think I know

 

it sounds like the soft clink

of raindrops on wind chimes,

the bell of morning prayer

echoing across the valley

as the sun pierces the darkness again

 

it sounds like a memory

that has grown a sweet scent

of dust and cobwebs, lost to

deterioration and oblivion, yet

I want to unearth again this vision

 

Grandma,

Do you remember me?

 

I hear her, I can see her,

a child sitting on my lap

and at the tips of our fingers swirl

galaxies

pockets of darkness

in a sea of light

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