Years from Now

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to fill the cabinet
under the kitchen sink
with disposable aluminum pans,
and empty butter dishes,
and old saucepans;
so my grandchild
can help herself to
everything she needs
to make mud pies
and fancy grass salads.
I will give her a wooden spoon
so she can stir
invisible soup over the
old grate in the backyard.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to make pigs in a blanket
for lunch,
and I will teach my grandchild
how to melt butter until it sizzles
and pop popcorn on the stovetop...
a lost art.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to slice cucumbers in neat rounds
to eat before dinner;
and I will have
a small Formica table
where we will have breakfast,
eating grapefruit
with little sharp-edged grapefruit spoons.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to keep a cut-glass candy dish
on the end table in the front room.
I will fill it with colorful hard candies
shaped like fruit.
In December, I will make
little green Christmas tree cookies
that taste like almond extract.

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember
to set up a quilt frame
in my living room;
so my grandchild
can hide beneath it
and cut paper dolls from catalogs
I saved for her in the magazine rack.

Years from now
If I am a grandma,
I will remember
to gather an extra quilt
from the cedar chifferobe
and tuck the heavy quilt
I stitched myself
on top of the blankets
on the guest bed
where the grandchild sleeps.
I will say, "Good night," and
"I love you," and
"Don't forget to say your prayers."

Years from now
if I am a Grandma,
I will remember.