Inga Lambert
Poem for my Grandmother
When I was small,
my grandmother warmed the comforter first,
as if love should never be given cold.
She wrapped me tight,
sat beside me in the recliner,
and let old movies flicker across our faces
while the world stayed quiet enough to breathe.
Outside, the clothesline stretched like a promise.
I handed her clothespins with hands too little to know
how much I was learning.
She taught me flowers by name,
how to listen to the dirt,
how sunlight and patience could turn leaves and water
into something sweet—
sun tea steeping in a glass jar,
time doing its gentle work.
She laughed easily,
the kind of laugh that made you feel safe
to be exactly who you were.
Her love was steady,
never loud,
always present.
Now I am grown,
and I treasure the days I drove her to do errands,
not knowing at the time
they were sacred ground.
In parked cars and quiet aisles
we told stories—
about my dad,
about my grandfather,
about laughter that lived long before me
and somehow still lived in us.
We spoke of call lights and tired hands,
of the quiet strength it takes to be a CNA,
how caring for others ran through us both
like a shared heartbeat.
We loved words too—
trading poems, lines scribbled on scraps of paper,
finding healing in language
when our hearts needed somewhere to rest.
Somewhere between stop signs and checkout lines,
we would say, everything happens for a reason,
even when we couldn’t see it yet—
trusting that one day,
in the end,
understanding would find us.
We talked about God,
about faith that questions and faith that holds.
We talked about family,
about her past,
about who we were becoming together.
We talked about health foods,
about oils and remedies for aching bones—
small hopes we held gently,
knowing love could soothe
even when it could not cure.
One day she will be gone,
and I will miss everything.
The conversations that wandered without hurry.
The wisdom tucked inside ordinary moments.
The way she made me feel known.
But I carry her still—
in warm blankets,
in sunlight through laundry,
in flowers I stop to notice,
in faith I keep wrestling with,
and in love that stays.
Because she did not just raise me for a season.
She stayed with me long enough
to become part of who I am.