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.