Your little child

Now so tar-grained

so silvery

The sharp edges long softened

So carefully drinking your coffee

And that those who must wait, but wait.

Patches of flags in your eyes,

sometimes on pause or rewind,

to underwear polonaises

And Friday clean-up day with Martini.

To Wednesday afternoons with spinach

or spaghetti or chicken/curry,

what do you want to eat dear child?

To miles of iron steaming

always back on post,

Saturday mass-and-plis,

Sunday market day at the square

And that made you thirsty.

Flattered by your life

hesitating, with little coughs

wavering, but always there.

Not of many words or gestures

not of cheap sentiment,

of life only wishing

That those you loved were spoiled.

Your gazes wandering through time,

your fingers groping for your ring,

until my hand takes yours,

you tighten your grip and you smile,

with your eyes and your mouth.

I know your heart,

you know mine.

I resemble you my dearest grandmother,

I'll always be your little child.