All I Heard
What wild creature I must have seemed,
raised by searching souls
who eventually came home.
I wonder what Grandma wanted to say sometimes
to me, or later, my own slightly feral small creatures.
I don’t remember much sage advice.
All I heard was love.
I wonder, did she ever want to scold us
for not rinsing the fine beach sand from our feet?
I wonder, did she ever recommend that I comb my hair?
I would bet money that, inwardly,
she wanted to correct my posture.
But instead of corrective commentary,
all I remember her offering was love.
There must have been moments…
But either my grandmother was a perfection
of blackberry, canned peach, pinned-up hairdo,
boiled custard composure
(which is possible)
or I must be deaf and blind,
because all I ever heard from her
all I ever saw in her face,
all I ever sensed in her kisses,
was love.
Written and delivered in memory of my grandmother, Barbara Frances Dye Hinton, who passed away at the age of 90 on Monday, September 22, 2014. She was my last grandparent, and I was her oldest grandchild and only granddaughter. Although we lived far apart my entire life, her love and acceptance was a constant. I feel privileged to be part of a family where this kind of unconditional love and support is a given, and is lived out by each family member in our own way. No matter what troubles come, what insults are given or what lapses in contact happen, our family knows we love each other, and always will. Our grandparents and parents taught us that through their lives. I will miss you, Grandma.
