i remember in my mimi’s sunroom:
mornings in lewisburg,
white wicker basket-threaded chairs,
a family of deer staring at us
and us peering at them.
i don’t remember the smell in particular
other than it smelled like her
and what i can imagine would be
coffee in the morning, of course
the kitchen was just steps away.
every time we would visit
she’d greet us at the back with
dreamsicle ice cream pops
and a trip to the movie store.
we’d wear out the same vhs films
like we had never seen inspector gadget before.
and in the morning:
cinnamon toast,
dew on the grass,
the sun tugging at daylight
and fawns staring at their mother.
i look back to see my mimi
holding her coffee, smiling.
i’m perched in her chair
with gleaming admiration.
a visual conversation
of gentleness
only a grandmother and grandchild
can foster.
Grant Davis
Poetry
BFA Advertising and Branding 2024
Nashville, Tennessee
