She's the one with her dark wavy hair up in a
bun ... the one who always knows how to make
things fun; She's the one who serves me warm
milk with a smidgeon of coffee and cream ...
the one who sews stuffed animals -- every
child's dream.
THIS WAS GRANDMA OF THE '50s.
She's the one in the kitchen simmering the
stew ... the one who picks homegrown
tomatoes, tiptoeing through the dew; She's
the one who at her naughty granddaughter
shakes the big wooden spoon ... the one who
takes me out at night to show me the stars
and the moon; She's the one who finds and
fixes Betsy Wetsy's missing finger ... the
one who sings lullabies -- my own soprano
singer.
THIS WAS GRANDMA OF THE '60s.
She's the one who teaches me to single
crochet and french knot ... the one who
shows me what to bake, what to broil, which
pan, which pot; She's the one who
untiringly retells her "Old Country" tales ...
the one who marches with me to all the
department sales.
THIS WAS GRANDMA OF THE '70s.
She's the one in Room 207 of the Plaza
Nursing Home ... the one who is the reason
why I wrote this loving poem; She's the one
who sits and prays in the blue wheelchair ...
the one who now has wispy silver-white
hair; She's the one with the crippled
arthritic hands ... the one whose sweet
smile has made many friends from many lands.
THIS IS GRANDMA OF '88.
I will write just one more line ... This is
Grandma and she's all mine!
With all my Love,
Diane-Lynn Broda
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