After my grandparents died
the year I turned twelve, 
she was the closest I had.
She belonged to my best friend,
but had enough love for me too.
She wore her white hair
in pin curls and had it permed
at least once a month. 
She said warshcloth instead of washcloth.
She made polyester patchwork quilts. 
No fancy patterns, just a warm blanket. 
She taught me the first steps
of crochet, made me an afghan 
of granny squares
when I graduated high school. 
She had the biggest garden
I’ve ever seen outside of a farm.
She sat outside on the porch
summer days, rocking
until some signal we never heard
told her to get up. 
She’d wander that garden, 
so to pull a weed or two,
maybe pick some tomatoes for dinner, 
then settle back in
to rock some more.