eyes closed,
breathe out.
silence.
open eyes;
open them to my grandma's hair,
the hair she had when she was young,
dark, thick,
coarse.
she will pull back from
the warmest hug
her hands on my shoulders,
and I will see the mole on her nose
and rub my finger across it,
unthinkingly.
She will laugh,
the low tingling resonates in my ears,
and we will begin to walk.
her hand will fall into mine,
naturally,
as we float through a bright place.
green grass,
white daisies,
and a smell that will remind me of
rose lotion,
but only after I think about it.
She will wear a white dress,
like the ones in the old pictures,
with the brightest,
smartest shoes.
(those were her favorite)
We will talk of nothing consequential,
but I will always remember
that my first moments in Paradise
were spent with my grandmother,
in laughter,
hand in hand.
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