Grandmother

She used to chase me around with a fly swatter if she thought I was being naughty.

She was dead serious about her aim, once she got her mind to it.

No matter what, I knew to not push her past that point of no return.

I knew she’d make sure that I would never forget it.

Other than that, we got along fine.

She’d send me to the kitchen to get snacks and watch my own TV while she watched her golf, loudly.

A cigarette and a cocktail later, early evening.

She wasn’t a lush – in fact, my grandparents were highly respectable.

It was just the swing of the clubhouse scene.

She’d let me watch her make dinner, but barely help.

Her meals were her own secret recipes.

I guess they were the one thing she could maintain control over.

And man-oh-man – she knew how to make our tummies crave her artisanry!

She had this magic Italian dressing mix that I could never reproduce again.

And her mac-n-cheese with Ritz crackers crumbled over the top – baked in – was heavenly!

A piece of candy or two was given to me as a rarity.

There were jars in the large kitchen drawers of latest selections.

And always, I was permitted a slice or two of the forbidden Kraft sliced cheese.

She knew how to take good care of me, and always played cards until late as my partner until grandpa came home.