Scent of fresh peaches boiling in sugar
water woke me from well intentioned nap.
She leaned over the bassinet, her back to me.
Familiar blue dress, red scarf, neat white bun.
Time creased hand stroked soft cheek.
My grandmother crooned over my firstborn.
No matter she was fourteen years dead.
This seems right for All Saints Day (and yes I know Jews don't celebrate All Saints Day but what the heck?) Some possibilities seem to cross traditions. Anyway, this one is for Poets United Poetry Pantry