Holly Michigan

Town of cobblestone brick dipped

in burnt sienna, Michigan greens

Grandma lived tucked away next 

to the gazebo, summers fresh from

the breeze drifting through screen

chimes, singing outside apartment

adorned ornate wood furniture, knick-

knacks, glass hummingbirds floating

over the sliding door. I stayed a week 

every summer when school was out 

and the sun grew hotter and she was still

herself, walking the neighborhood, 

washing dishes at sunset, watering 

vines and plants across the cement- 

block porch, bird feeders coax squirrels 

as we scan trees with binoculars, blue 

flash between branches. At night she tucks

me in, couch of quilts blankets

embroidered 

pillows, nightlight in the wall a cerulean 

wash, sneak video games on my phone, 

hide it when she stirs, wake in the morning 

to her television. The summer I don’t stay 

she hits her head, splits open and lays a while,

memories spill across the floor, fizzle, nobody

to pick them up. We move her out, every

grandchild a hummingbird, every knick-knac

claimed. I stop visiting when hospice answers.