my grandma is a lost hazy figure
a scattering blur on the horizon
fading in and out of reality,
of something resembling sanity.

she worships a rainbow of her own mind,
pleading for some long-foregone benediction.
hear her wild whispering to the wind,
the drag of her body over the curve of the horizon.

she used to grow prize-winning sunflowers
in her garden behind the big blue house.
now is a directionless cypsela
in the breeze. empty hands held wide open

to catch a cascade of glorious light
cast prismatic and most ephemeral
in her cracked leather palms. to bring it to her mouth
to swallow the light and become it.

the last time our realities cross paths
her eyes are a mirror image of mine
we stare at each other for a long time
she opens her mouth to finally speak,

‘you look just like
my granddaughter.’

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An English and Psychology major at Modesto Junior College, Penelope Lee resides in Modesto, California, where she works as a writing tutor by day and bartender by night.