I watched her every morning
as the summer sun
crept slowly
above the horizon.
She stared out the window,
her weary face
pinched with a bitter smile-
I never knew what she was thinking . . .
This cold, hard woman that I couldn't
touch,
my grandmother.
After she died, I cleaned the
closets-
the only remaining clue to her mind,
cluttered,
a paraphernalia of
memories.
I found her,
in the faded manuscript,
marred with chords
and lyrics,
sincere,
and happy.
She used to have dreams,
I realized
that cold winter.
The unyielding woman
that I spent my summers with
used to be someone.
She used to be . . .
I had always thought she hadn't loved me.
But as the morning rays
play shadows on the
forlorn chestnut Baldwin
standing forgotten,
a reminder of what her fear
prevented,
her chance lost . . .
I knew only
that she was embittered
by a dream deferred.

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