Mommom pours peroxide
on the shirt covered in
kisses from the grass
at my cousin's football game

she says
"this is how you remove stains
from clothes"

Grandma puts the last clean dish
on the drying rack
opens a fourth can of beer
from a fridge dressed in magnets

she says
"this is how you remove stains
from your memory"

Mommom shows me how
I should paint my nails
tells me men like girls
with soft hands

Grandma shows me how
to knit
tells me to make sure
I keep myself warm

Mommom is hanging picture frames on the wall
Grandma is watering her herbs
miles apart
they both sigh
and brush their hands on their skirts

I sit and hold my grandmother
in the shape of a small pillow on my bed -
they turned the dress she used to wear
into covers for all of my family's grief
and all of human need for things to stay close.
Her dress matches my bedsheets,
so it seems almost too fitting for her to be here.
I know grandmothers are grandmothers,
but they've always been people before that,
and maybe pillows afterwards.
I have a lot to do before I die,
and a lot more people will probably know me
and at least a few more people will probably love me,
and I don't wear a lot of dresses but,
I hope I will compliment the color scheme of your bedspread someday. I hope I will fit as easily into your life as a she fit into mine.

Holding hands around
                       a table
the rim of the toilet seat

Listening  to
                 mommom recite prayer
the voice in my head

Passing
                 food around the table
on second servings