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Grandmother’s Death (Her Kitchen) Part 2(Finale).
#WritcoPoemPrompt42
Write a poem focusing on a single memory, or describe what you might imagine the typical grandmother’s kitchen to be like.
I could see our neighbours at my front yard,
"Uh! I'll still share my kernel with my neighbour's children?"
I thought as I ran along to meet my grandmother.
The fireplace was cold, and I was hungry,
Grandma! Grandma! I called out in anger.
"come eat at my place, your grandma is not back home",
The neighbour said with smile which I found unusual.
We'll, they had a dinning table with a TV,
But I just wanted to go home, strangely.
"Thanks for the food but no, thanks.",
I stormed out back to my front yard.
"Grandma! I'm hungry!" like every other day, "Are you back?",
I heard a voice from the inside.
I stormed in to protest against child abuse,
But I was met with blind hesitation.
"Your grandmother is not back, and she won't be"
I looked on as those words were for adults,
"Your grandmother is dead. She has been buried in the woods."
Those words sounded familiar, they were the exact words my grandmother told me when I lost my parents,
Does it mean...
I staggered to her kitchen, the source of my survival.
On the wall is a rusted iron cage where she kept her grains and leaves,
The fireplace has always had the scent of beefs hung on top to preserve it.
The rusty iron her kitchen is made of had nylons used to block the holes,
Her buckets of water remained at hand reach beside her stool.
Plates, pots and hand fans were on top of her marriage shelve,
Though spoilt, they still had their use.
Her basket of Iru and where she kept her spices still had the scent of her Turari,
I knelt near the wooden door where she always keep her firewood for the next morning.
Her laughter filled the kitchen as tears dropped down my face,
"Grandma, Grandma, Grandma"
Was all I could say while crying.
I've not really done anything for her,
If I known she'd be gone soon and impromptu,
I would have listened more while she corrected me.
No, I would have been a perfect granddaughter so that she wouldn't have to correct me.
But, all I did was eat her food and play on the next streets,
Bring bruises home and cause her to worry.
If, if, if was the only thing I thought of while crying,
I thought growing up would make me lonely,
I never knew being a kid will as well.
So, I had to live my life living to my grandmother’s expectations,
Being sensitive and taking each moment as precious.
I grew up choosing a career when I left for the city a day after her death,
That when I grow up, I want to be my grandmother.
And Happily, I Am.
© Omega*3
Write a poem focusing on a single memory, or describe what you might imagine the typical grandmother’s kitchen to be like.
I could see our neighbours at my front yard,
"Uh! I'll still share my kernel with my neighbour's children?"
I thought as I ran along to meet my grandmother.
The fireplace was cold, and I was hungry,
Grandma! Grandma! I called out in anger.
"come eat at my place, your grandma is not back home",
The neighbour said with smile which I found unusual.
We'll, they had a dinning table with a TV,
But I just wanted to go home, strangely.
"Thanks for the food but no, thanks.",
I stormed out back to my front yard.
"Grandma! I'm hungry!" like every other day, "Are you back?",
I heard a voice from the inside.
I stormed in to protest against child abuse,
But I was met with blind hesitation.
"Your grandmother is not back, and she won't be"
I looked on as those words were for adults,
"Your grandmother is dead. She has been buried in the woods."
Those words sounded familiar, they were the exact words my grandmother told me when I lost my parents,
Does it mean...
I staggered to her kitchen, the source of my survival.
On the wall is a rusted iron cage where she kept her grains and leaves,
The fireplace has always had the scent of beefs hung on top to preserve it.
The rusty iron her kitchen is made of had nylons used to block the holes,
Her buckets of water remained at hand reach beside her stool.
Plates, pots and hand fans were on top of her marriage shelve,
Though spoilt, they still had their use.
Her basket of Iru and where she kept her spices still had the scent of her Turari,
I knelt near the wooden door where she always keep her firewood for the next morning.
Her laughter filled the kitchen as tears dropped down my face,
"Grandma, Grandma, Grandma"
Was all I could say while crying.
I've not really done anything for her,
If I known she'd be gone soon and impromptu,
I would have listened more while she corrected me.
No, I would have been a perfect granddaughter so that she wouldn't have to correct me.
But, all I did was eat her food and play on the next streets,
Bring bruises home and cause her to worry.
If, if, if was the only thing I thought of while crying,
I thought growing up would make me lonely,
I never knew being a kid will as well.
So, I had to live my life living to my grandmother’s expectations,
Being sensitive and taking each moment as precious.
I grew up choosing a career when I left for the city a day after her death,
That when I grow up, I want to be my grandmother.
And Happily, I Am.
© Omega*3
