Gramma Base

I remember you a smokey brown haired dreamer
You used to lean your head on right hand elbow on table and run your fingers through your hair
You would cough and talk to me with Nat King Cole crackling from the radio and the smell of bacon in the air
The bread box was filled with old and new bread; little bugs would crawl across every other opening
I remember how you fought and I remember how classy you were
I knew you had regrets. They sat on that hand and those fingers running through your hair.
They were in each cigarette. They were in each cough and childhood song. They were in your pictures.
They were yours and you were theirs.