Thoughts of those times and places and people we can no longer see. Those we never knew. All four of my grandparents died before I was born, so the mystique of grandma has always held a fascination for me. His was a sound, moving from the late seventies into the eighties. Revisited often by the R&B groups of today, a sound which can never be duplicated.
His deep mahogany voice, so often my only companion on a cold, lonely Saturday night. Here I am on a Saturday and I'm thinking of him, thinking of the ones who are gone, the one I never knew.
Grandma … the only one was my own mother and the touch of her hands wiping young tears, soothing night fears, remains … Grandma's Hands.
Her face greets me,
In my bathroom mirror
In the morning.
I am
fOIS
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