Memories are harder to recall of you, Nana.
We never had much time before memories
were all you knew, and the present
was just a tragedy, a fearful thing.
We ran out faster than the yarn you knitted;
all those colorful skeins, re-spun into balls,
knitting needles protruding like antennas,
eventually unable to recall a clear picture.
But if I think long enough...
I can remember when you lived with us,
your room the one I later moved into.
But I don't remember much,
except your red chair,
and that time you called my dad a bastard
as he walked by. I still smile about that.
I must get my spunk from you.
I can remember spending weekends at your apartment,
watching Wheel of Fortune, watching you knit
or crochet, and "finger knitting" alongside of you.
And I eagerly ate liver and onions when you cooked it for me,
something I learned not to like as soon as you no longer made it.
And of course, we played poker...for pennies.
I can remember racing you down the hallway,
making sure I always reach