Married at thirteen, widowed at forty
I know how my grandma felt

She said, I was a lot like her
I understand why...now

Almost all her days were spent at home
Each day, moving like a clock

She woke up at five, made four meals, kept a clean home
raised four children, lost one; not much in common with the life I’ve led

But the in-between breakfast and lunch, lunch and tea,
and tea and dinner -

when she’d walk the grounds, inspecting each hibiscus flower and coconut tree,
when she’d talk to the crows hovering over and the cats and dogs trespassing

when after lunch, she’d sit on the porch and read the newspaper, 
pausing now and then to look at the neighbour's clucking hens  and the mooing cows, 

and the sweet green mangoes and guavas dangling on the boughs before her
It's the in-between that I understand

As I sit now on the porch and look at the shadows
that the sun makes of the washing line, the pink and purple pegs,

the travelling palms, African lilies, allisons, and the geraniums
on the green grass, I feel a slice of heaven has been served to me

That’s how Grandma must have felt every day of her life
from thirteen to ninety, when she breathed her last.