My grandmother always told me…

What has she told me?

I hope she told me stories of her youth.

Maybe her first love.

I hope she taught me how to cook,

How to tell what’s ripe, what’s not, all the myths and fables that the country and communism will allow.

I wish she told me anything.

Anything with her voice.

Was it high pitched? Middle?

Was her voice low?

Raspy?

Was she a heavy smoker?

I bet she sounded as sweet as honey.

More soft than her calluses.

God I hope she’d tell me how she loves me.

Or loved me.

I hope she’d tell me stories of my mother.

And how she loves her too.

I hope she’d tell me anything.

Anything, because anything would be more than everything.