Time
I’ll always yearn for them, Grandma’s sly smile and Grandpa’s bolo tie.
Her sauce would fill the room with the fragrance of garlic and oregano,
He could only make croutons, no other crouton will ever compare.
I wish I cooked alongside Grandma, asked for her recipes,
And help Grandpa select the perfect crusty bread, then grab that old cookie sheet.
I remember Grandma would hold my first bras for me until check-out, because I was embarrassed to,
And Grandpa would be first in the school pick-up lane and pull out his crosswords to pass time.
They’d come over every Christmas morning, coffee in hand, to see me tear into Santa’s gifts.
They were my safety-net in my unsafe world,
My place to go when I was unwanted at home.
My biggest regret about getting older has little to do with lines and silver,
It’s the two people I wish I would have spent more time with when I was younger.
But I was a self-absorbed twenty-something, trying to venture out on my own,
Grandpa died and I shut down.
My tenacious grandma carried on for many years,
She gets cancer, she fights, knowing the opponent will win.
By the pinecones left on their grave from before, I know I’m the one who visits most,
I sit down, tell them how my daughter is, and I ask for their advice.
What I wouldn’t give for one more story, one more crouton, and a little more time.
Cher Finver is the author of several essays and the memoir, But You Look So Good and Other Lies. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada with her husband, daughter, and three dogs.
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