Dear Grandma Juniper

You never could take anything too seriously,
Loved rolling and twisting teal play doh
Fashioning beaks and feet and wings
Reminding us to love small things

I wonder what you’d think of the beach,
Not the Oregon Coast you took me to,
But fiddler-crab-ful Outer Banks
At least, I think you’d love the wild horses

All I have glimpsed of them was manure
Next to the road in Corolla, in the sand
I remember long drives in the backseat
When you’d roll down your window

As if the stink confirmed something
You couldn’t name, as if it were an
Elusive foothold to a girl you never
Got to be-again-grew up too soon

So you spent your days with us
In the seriousness of play, busy
Beyond belief, squeezing drops
Of joy from every moment

The way butter melted and slid
Off corn on the cob you’d serve
nearly every dinner at your house
tucked into a Skagit Valley cul de sac

And sketched in Sharpie in my brain
Along with your voice and the sight
Of you with your index finger pressing
Your nose at the sound of sirens