“We’re almost there.”
Something new always happens at
Gramma’s.
Pulling in past cement driveway sentinels.
“Oh! You’re
here!” says the sweet voice.
Scrambling out of the car into Gramma hugs.
Exploring the Christmas tree growing beside the strong stone house built by Grandpa, the back yard searching for animals at the cold bonfire, birds singing.
Then up the stairs to the fresh bread aroma of the kitchen.
Finally free, following the lush carpet garden path
searching for butterflies, dragonflies, baby birds, grass snakes, the fragrant
wild flower field.
There, in shoulder-high weeds, daisies, grassy tufts, she
finds a new beetle.
