Memories for the Grandma Book

It’s for you, Kayla, my granddaughter, now 10.
I started writing in the Grandma Book the first month of your life.
Things you asked, words you spoke in baby’s tongue,
Sentences you spoke that tickled me, touched me.
Songs you sang, pictures you made,
Which little friend you did what with—
Barbie dolls, outdoor shed, park swinging, cooking.

We once stopped at a stamp show—
You were willing to look for 5 minutes.
25 minutes later, you’d scooped up the allowed amount of stamps,
Had pages for an album, and were ready to collect.
We looked through all the cancelled stamps I had at home
And soon had a page with flowers, another with animals,
With people, with lighthouses, with vehicles.

At my house we play Guess Who. You sometimes win.
You jump on the rebounder, and ask me to give you orders.
We play store and restaurant and theater.
You’re so efficient as you ring up by bill,
Serve me food, arrange my tickets.

In my poem, “I’m a Grandma, I Get to Play.”
I told of your eating cookie dough,
Tying your braids around poles on a bus, doing gymnastics there too.
The bus or porch or garden are all playground.
I’m waited on by you at my living room café,
Buy clothes at my dining room outlet,
Play monopoly or chess on the deck table.
Mi casa, su casa, Kayla. You bring me joy.