grandma's hair is dark and lush, cut to a quick bob.
she wears a fine red wine dress over the sheen of tan stockings.
flitting around on hummingbird heels,
she ushers me close to the fireplace, letting me sit on the sturdy golden wood of a chair.
sitting close to me, we stare out at the softly falling snow,
much like the powdered sugar she will sprinkle on cookies thirty years from now.
i look at her flawless skin, her astoria-peaked nose, and grab her hand.
we are set in a time that was never our own,
happy to breathe in the expanding lung
between reality and wish.
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