Sunday Mornings

Nona was always a gracious host—

Even after her knitted socks began to 

Resemble amorphous clouds of colour,

Even after locks on doors lost their usefulness

Much like the Volkswagen in her garage,

Even when she began to call me by my 

Mother’s name, even after she lost her ability

To go on evening walks alone,

Even after she eventually forgot the secret 

Ingredient to her infamous pancakes. 

I can count memories of my grandmother on one hand,

Yet to this day, the whiff of paprika takes me 

Back to Sunday mornings at Nona’s house.

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