She had a garden in the back of the house, and I would walk by her side.  She was tall--about six feet--and I was less than three feet tall.  But never once in my life did I feel small beside my Grandma; she treated me with respect and love, like no one else.  She taught me all about the garden and how to keep one.  I never thought I was small, because she made me feel I was important, and I knew that I was loved.

     She also kept chickens, and it used to be my job to feed them.  I loved that.  I learned that chickens have individual personalites once you get to know them.  I even had a pet chicken for a while that Grandma gave me, a banty rooster that actually would come running up to me and jump in my lap for a good petting when I went to the coop and sat on this old tree stump in the corner.

     When Grandma died, it turned out that she had saved for me a genuine silver dollar that had been given to me by a Texas ranger who was impressed with my ability to hold a good conversation with him.  The dollar was wrapped up in an envelope on which she had written: "This is M's silver dollar that he got from a Texas ranger when he was four years old.  Give it to him."  To tell you the truth, that old raggedy envelope with her writing on it was more precious to me, by far, than the silver dollar it contained.

     I recall so well the last time I saw Grandma.  I was eleven.  My mother and father had decided to move the family to California.  Grandma and Mama hugged and hugged and hugged, and then they cried and cried and cried, while Daddy and my younger brother and two sisters sat in the car waiting.  Grandma and Mama finally parted.

     Then it was my turn.

     Grandma stooped down to my level.  Although I sprouted up later, I was pretty short back then--even shorter than usual for eleven.  She put her arms around me and gave me the biggest, warmest, most loving hug I ever got from anyone in all my life. 

     Then she leaned back and looked closely at me, studying my face as if she were an artist and was going to paint my portrait.  Her left hand lifted up and she touched my right cheek.  So I reached up and touched her face, too.

     She told me to be a good boy.

     I started to cry.  Then she said: "Don't cry.  You'll see me again, Michael."  In tears, I said, "Yes, Grandma--but when?"  She replied, "I don't know when exactly.  Either I'll come visit ya'll, or ya'll will come visit me.  But I promise you: I'll see you again, someday; and you'll see me."

     I pray that she was right.


--by Michael LP
aka PoetWithCancer, aka Mr. Poet
Copyright © 2010 by Michael L.P.   All rights reserved