My Grandmother’s House

My grandmother could have bragged about her life but she chose
to live in a small bungalow along Camaro Street
As a child I would pay her visits and would be welcomed
by her dancing yellow bells and fuchsia gumamelas
Her evergreen aloe veras and dewy grass would gleam
at me just before I push open the door to her home

Inside all is well-kept: her furniture made of Narra
shiny shade of light brown, polished so often when you touch
your hands become like swans gliding across the Walden pond
An altar stands tall in the middle of her living room
commanding and keeping watch, ensuring there is order

My grandmother could have stayed longer there. Instead she chose
to sleep just before the sun set and never rose again
Today I pay a visit again to her casita
Her beloved yellow bells and fuchsia gumamelas
have gone away with her once evergreen aloe veras
I bow down to the grass now white as my own hair, before
I push the door open and see nothing but dust and mold

In place of what was once majestic is an altar where
an image of a man who could be dead or God stands still.

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