Scrapbook Insecurities

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I love my Grandpa's nose
so straight and handsome;
with a point, just like mine
And also like me,
it wrinkles up when he puffs his cheeks,
just so I can hear the breath blow out.

I miss my Grandma's eyes,
the ones I barely knew.
The soft,warm essence that makes
you feel cozy inside
just like hot chocolate.

I love my Grandpa's brows
still dark and thick
burrowing together as he tells me the story
of that scar on his elbow
while I sit fascinated
by the purple heart in my hand.

I miss my Grandma's smile,
the one that warmed her eyes,
the one that held the family together
when she brought out a lemon meringue pie
on the front porch
where the hummingbirds danced.

I love my Grandpa's laugh
so strong and deep
as we trek through the garden
to go see the beagles,
Shiloh, she is my favorite.

I miss my Grandma's voice
lulling with rhythm
as she told us of Max the doberman;
her favorite rocking chair
marking the tempo.

Her favorite rocking chair;
left empty along with Grandpa's stories,
laughter and blackjack skills
Played over a silly thing like
quarters and penny candies.

Empty like the house with the chewing gum,
and the garden with the beagles,
and the makeshift baseball field
with a broken down bus.
He left it there holding my memories,
like a faded scrapbook.

And I left it there when I was
too afraid to tell Grandma goodbye





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