The Write Grandma
When my grandma wrote a letter, it was a descriptive thing,
You could almost smell the rosebush that she planted in the spring.
And when she saw a robin, you could also hear him sing,
Or a church bell in the distance had a familiar ring.
This letter she was writing was a lifeline to us all,
Since we couldn’t make the journey she would address us one and all.
For my mother there would be recipes just reading would make you drool,
For me, there would be a dollar and her memories of a one room school.
She would talk of fresh mown hay and the heat of the afternoon,
The coolness of the evening, and the size of that harvest moon.
It was better than television the way she could describe,
The wobbly legs of a new born calf you would swear you were by her side.
you also could envision the vastness of her heart,
Or see the tears on the paper when she spoke of being apart.
My grandma had a way with words that you just don’t see today,
Not just I thought I’d drop you a line with nothing more to say.
The words told you the colour, the size, shape, and the smell.
The description of her surroundings we all remembered well.
We all would have a visit each time she sat to write,
She would take us through her day
From morning until night.
We’d get to meet the people
She spoke to on that day,
We would hear about the neighbourhood and
What they had to say.
My heart would jump for joy
When I’d hear my mother say,
Come in the house I have a surprise
Grandma wrote today.
Now the letters don’t come anymore......
How I wish I had saved the rest,
For when it came to letter writing,
My grandma was the best.
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I paint pictures with words.
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