my palms press into the bluebird mug fingers seep in tingly warmth the green tea lifts steams soft swirls, summoning memories who surface like undead ghosts my four-year-old nose nuzzled into grandma’s woolly cardigan every inhale lifts the crushed dust of loose leaves settled safely in the threads. it is medicine for my gasping lungs and red-faced toddler tears. it is
warm like melting
sugar on the stove stirred with walnuts as winter treats. it is
solid
heat of weathered hands her wrinkles trace worn melodies my solace in the cradled crook of arms embrace. it is a lullaby palms press into bluebird mug sip by sip the ghosts slip in bloom in me a garden for an unmade grave. go call your grandma right this instant | Keena Du
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