Grandmother Fog

Grandmother Fog

The fog
is the presence of
my wise grandmother,
full of soul and comfort.

When I have awoken
prematurely from a slumber,
puffy eyed and wanting to cry for sleep–
more wonderful dreams–
she makes it so
that I am walking in her clouds.

The fog is the softness of her garments
no longer matched in quality
for the purpose of consumerism;

the tuck of her oversized sweater
wrapped around me in a perfumed memory:

“It is froggy,” she would say.
And her voice would sound textured
like an amphibian,
gritty
like the smog not yet seen from the LA highway,
and yet flowing
like the smoke taken hourly into her lungs,
car windows closed.

The quilted air, like a time machine,
brings me back to her hand
atop a washcloth,
atop my face,
her cheeks puffed up with the pressure of air
compressed against her teeth and gums just so
that she was Donald Duck
between her laughter at
my bouncing belly;
Her blue-green eyes
open like when I would peel them wide
as she
pretended
to nap.

She brings romance to being lonely;
that space in which I can see no further
than my own skin;
and its needs
are simple:
It is calling me
to be in it —
my flesh —
recording moments as if a child
not yet concerned with
where I have been
nor where I will go.

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