for nan

Leandra Lee

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pressing crayons
into wax paper
into autumn leaves
of brown and yellow;

​

the seasons don't look the same here
as they do
around the lake
in saugus, mass.

​

nan says she’s moving back
to sit around the lake with her sisters—
the ones she has left—
and watch the kids learn how to skate.

​

says there’s nothing left for her
here anymore.

​

my mother has time after time
chosen the warmth
of cinnamon whiskey in her throat
over the warmth of her mother’s company.

​

my uncle and his wife
don’t need a babysitter anymore.
left their irish catholic roots
and my grandmother alike.

​

my cousins are thirteen and fifteen,
zit-faced and delicate; busy.
they don’t count the weeks
since they’ve seen nan.

​

my sisters and i are the only ones who
keep our friday night dates.
netflix and pumpkins,
ferns and leftovers
in pyrex containers.

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of five sets of christmas ornaments
collected over 22 years
only one
makes it out of the attic
out of the box
and onto the tree.

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i remember what she taught me:
how wet to make floral foam;

​

what colors of hydrangea
grow where;

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all of the answers to
“what plant is this?”;

​

and never
to buy peonies
out of season.

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and now, as we settle into the dull,
brown, yellow, 100 degree
north carolina autumn,
october calls,
and i can't help but yearn

​

for one last meal
of spaghettios and white bread,
untoasted, with butter,
sat around the folding table
pulled from the closet
all-too-close
to the t.v. in the living room.