Grandma

Today, the wind and the windows hummed the deepest baseist chord

A guttural tone that mimicked my grandmother’s fret. 

“Lydia took a turn,” she’d say, never saying in what direction. 

“You’ll catch your death,” she’d scold, never explaining how. 

She baked the tiniest of muffins from the tiniest box and tell me not to eat them. 

I’d swat her hand when she’d help me with my dress for church.

“No man will ever have you,” she’d warn, without a trace of doubt. 

“Your independence will be the death,” she’d say, without any clarification. 

A gust, the rain, more leaves on the ground than on the trees.