A narrow wooden swing went swish and swish.
The big open windows let in the breeze.
Here, I never had to demand a wish.
Nor had to act or behave to appease.
My grandparents loved to fuss over me.
I would sleep or pretend to be asleep.
This old place that would always let me be
where my ancestral roots run sweet and deep.
The kitchen was filled with jars of pickle
where we gossiped and spiced up tales for fun.
My grand mom ruffled my hair to tickle.
Just to see that smile I went there often.
The house is closed now, not those memories.
I am still pampered by their melodies
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