Doctor Grandma

Dutch windmills turn forever in my mind,
Like Don Quixote, I am lost,

Lost in the memory of my grandma’s kitchen
Where I had 7-up and Dutch windmill cookies,
Listened to my grandpa’s stories
As he sat in the corner chair,

He joked and chattered
Of the old days,
of WWI, and the day he returned,
found his family at a brother’s wedding,
which had already begun,

Soon after, he and Cena were wed,
They rode to Chicago on a train,
Pictures of her posed in her finery
A fox stole round her neck,

The two of them born in America,
Their parents were the immigrants,
Conversations only occasionally
betrayed the language of their ancestors,

“Cup e te ha?” my grandmother would say,
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
But more often than not, my grandpa drank
the coffee he perked on the stove.

…

We drive to the entrance of “Dutch Village,”
a tourist trap in Holland, Michigan,
I looked forward to seeing the wooden shoes,
Blue Delft dishes from their home,

They want $40.00 for our car
to drive into this little Mall,
Come in, buy products from the homeland,
and ride a ferris wheel,

I look at my husband, astonished,
As we turn and drive away,
A flood of sadness fills me,
I want to take my grandpa’s hand,

I feel his spirit with me
as we leave this traffic jam,
I think of Dutch windmill cookies,
and realize, just how Dutch
I really am.

cfblack 07-13-2014

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