Reminiscence by Emma Lambert
of gingersnap cookies
resonates in the air.
nights after we got home
from an evening at the park
one cousin running around
pulling out board games from the
closet, while another was slipping their
tiny feet into grandma’s old heels
and stomping around the kitchen tiles.
house on a hill every year,
a house built on the foundation of love.
A house that had been called
home for more years than
you could count on two hands.
even when the sun set and
darkness swallowed the sky.
cartoons on VHS and three trips
to the kitchen in the same hour
to grab another snack from
the cluttered kitchen table.
two or three children
would curl up underneath
the layers of quilts and sheets.
the spot next to grandma that night,
or when it was peaceful,
we would stare at the ceiling and
say whatever was on our minds.
the lamp on her dresser,
gently pull back the sheets,
and lay down next to us.
asking God to keep us safe
and sound and simply thanking him
for her family, showing her gratitude.
shut and sleepiness overcame us,
she would turn to face the wall,
gently trace circles on my little arm,
I love you.