I miss my grandmother every day
and only this week
uncovered another level of that grief

but I cannot see her
as a constellation
even though I know that should be a comfort.

My grandmother
placing rows of canned beets
in an earth-floored cellar.

My grandmother picking stones and
blemished potatoes from a conveyor belt
so some wife will get full value from her 5-pound bag.

My grandmother washing used sheets of tin foil
to cover the ham in the oven and wrapping it
so we can savor those packets of love later in the week.

My grandmother putting her hand out
stilling my fidgeting in the church pew beside her then
gently touching my arm to take the sting from the rebuke.

My grandmother kneeling to plant black-faced pansies
in their fancy bonnets along the front walk
of the house my grandfather built.

My grandmother muttering under her breath
about the brambles
in the overgrown raspberry patch.

My grandmother tipping mason jars of tadpoles
back into the stream
when her grandchildren aren’t looking.

I loved my grandmother before she was a constellation
so I look for her in the kitchen and the garden and the church pew
and the mirror of my child.