Your postcards now hang
in my living room,
I took two of them
off the wall
in your kitchen,
moved them down
the road
where I see
the ocean while
I write this poem.
The middle one
was by your bedside
when you died.
I look at them
and see all
the memories,
all the summers
I came home
to see you
where I now call
my own.
I carry your love
in your handwriting
with me
on my wrist.
You visited me
in my dream
the other night.
Thank you, Grammie,
for still listening.
Kelly Severseike 