She'd always pinch my cheek and say:
"How's my little man?"
She'd walk me up to church or school
and hold my little hand.
Still what I remember most
beyond a psalm or test
was Grandma's crappy dress.
It was charcoal grey with a bent zipper
that stuck out up the front.
Her pockets carried kleenex balls
her hands would have to hunt.
A botched-up collar that went each way
created a fashion mess
for Granma's crappy dress.
And certain nights when storms arose
she'd run upstairs to me
and grab a chair to settle down
to make my terrors flee
But when I'd rise to hug goodnight
my fears would then regress
from Grandma's crappy dress.
So now here as I say goodnight
wherever she may be.
If she arrived in heaven then
I'm glad she's finally free.
But if she's somehow down in hell
the devil nevertheless
must burn that crappy dress.
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