by Sharon Draper
I remember my Granny's home cookin',
She'd hum, and she'd mix, and she'd stir.
She could make buttered bones taste delicious,
If that's all the makin's there were.
I remember my Granny's lap-naptimes,
Where dreams would lie wrapped her her arms.
She would sing of old pain and lost glory,
Of the long-ago days on the farms.
I remember my Granny's strong fingers,
As she brushed and she braided my hair.
My scalp and my brain would just tingle
As she wound her own memories there.
I remember my Granny's old washtub;
It was battered and made out of tin.
Warm bubbles made baths seem like magic,
And nighttime and dreams could begin.
I remember my Granny's soft blankets,
On a large, squeaky, four-poster bed.
The faint smell of mothballs and cedar,
And her warm breathing close to my head.
from Buttered Bones
Collected poetry by Sharon M Draper
1997
