My grandmother told my sister and me,
the one summer we stayed with her,
"anything but Nana or Mawmaw."
We called her “pantyhose” for several years
I speak of her now as if she is dead.
It's funny how things happen.
Funny like a squirrel,
flattened on the road, at the edge of the white line,
so close to the grass, almost to a tree.
Funny like the way an incoming storm
pushes all the trees one way
and turns the leaves over,
revealing the curve of their underbellies –
Beautiful like my grandmother that summer,
while she tucked my sister and me
in to sleep, in her pale green night gown.