On our way to Grandma's, we drive out into the country.
She waits for us at the kitchen table, while reading an autobiography.
Coming upon an old house, that's hot and dry in the summer,
cold and cozy in the winter - familiar thoughts enter my mind.
I think of that old house and what it could tell;
how the old linoleum cracked, or how the upstairs had its musty smell.
The golden fields rimmed with barb-wire fences,
opened my mind and cleared my senses.
The dogs would run to their granite bowls, at the sound of Grandma's call.
She'd fill 'em up with corn cobs and meat scraps - "Snoopy" was her name for them all.
We watched the dogs run in and out of the eucalyptus trees
while talking around the kitchen table and feeling the breeze.
Grandma loved to listen to the birds there,
it was a place where she relaxed.
Even when interrupted by the TV,
with its volume turned up to the max.
Many years she spent getting to know this place,
the story of the ranch was written upon her face.
That story will be on my mind,
as I think of the memories she left behind.