My grandma’s house was a magical place —
laden with relics and doilies of lace,
filled with aromas, adventure, and love.
When feeling nostalgic, it’s what I dream of….
Sweet violets dotted the path to her door;
treasures were hidden in each dresser drawer.
Snowballs and daisies would blossom each spring;
I still recall all the wonder they’d bring!
Each Sunday dinner, which we’d eat at noon,
always would come to an end far too soon.
(Meatballs and pasta!) It makes my heart ache,
recalling her baked goods, each cookie and cake.
When music was on, to the rhythm, I’d sway,
mostly to tunes sung by Miss Doris Day.
Learning the lyrics was part of the fun,
engaging me after dinner was done.
With pipe in hand (from the porch, standing guard),
Grandpa would watch as I played in the yard.
Sometimes, their neighbors would also come out
and give me their blessing to run all about.
But sadly, once night fell, goodbyes would be said.
Yet back at home in the warmth of my bed,
knowing, next Sunday, to Grandma’s we’d go,
I let the sandman, his sweet dreams, to sow.