When I close my eyes, I can picture grandma’s living room.
It was a room of shag carpets, trinkets, and clocks,
A sagging sofa accented with a llama skin throw and guarded by a gramophone.
That sanctuary of stability, anchoring memories, changeless by so many years.
Grandpa’s new chair and a flat panel TV at odds with that theme,
and though he’s gone now, that booming voice still echoes in the air, punctuated by his crazy hair.
Grandma would sit in his chair for years after, riding the recliner down memory winds.
Flying through turbulent patches, times rapids, on to some slow sweet summer days adrift.
I know this by that flat smirk and a twinkle in her look.
A regular visit paid to that place, Friday night’s after dinner tradition, traditions TV channel.
Like chocolate cake for her reflection, fondly held in many memories, and religiously consumed.
The rest of us experienced show flavored like stale bread, but stayed for the sake of her happy thoughts. I didn’t fly to neverland’s timeless channel every Friday, but that sound remains in my ears.
The sound of folky gospel, vocals braded in choir, boisterous bands, and singers.
The sound of tap dance shoes hailing like so many high school drummers.
Grandma’s favorite music cake, a sweet melody to her memory, the Gaither Band.