Varroom went the little brown bottle of
Grandma’s perfume
as I rolled it down the table
Up and down I kept rolling the brown bottle
ignoring her request to put it down.
She was right, as usual, and the bottle smashed:
on the floor it went
in a million pieces.

My grandma fell along with that bottle
as if she were broken in a million pieces
Her father had given that bottle to her,

and I was very young
and afraid;
my body prevented me
from saying sorry.

She died
and at her funeral
I drew her a picture
of how I felt:

it was a picture of a perfume bottle
with me trapped inside,
waiting and hoping
to be let out
onto a lady’s coat
to be admired by everyone
like the smell of fresh banana bread
that someone’s mother just baked
I wanted to be a scent
with nothing holding me back
Because that was how I felt –

filled with so much grief
I couldn’t say sorry
It’s like I was trapped in a stretched balloon,
and would never see the light of day
How I wish
I could have said
sorry.