(c) 2004
Though Grandma is dead
she waits at my kitchen table
for me to braid her hair.
When alive, her hair
was too short to braid.
Now, twining is natural.
I need to know
what is mine—
or could be.
I am one of five granddaughters,
her favorite
as easily as any other.
I am the one
who volleyed bible verses
across burnt toast and tea.
In dreams, what is missing
appears.
I ask permission
to forage in her jewelry box,
to claim her credulous faith
in the unseen.
One brooch or ring—
infused with meaning—
a thread,
what to take,
what to leave.
