Grandma Allen

Her arms were supple and reminded me of

the soft bread dough I pinched as it swelled


in her kitchen. She pressed butter-covered

marshmallows and rice into teddy bear molds I can


still taste, and nothing now compares. Colorful jars

adorned her kitchen countertop, bottled pears


of pink, of green, of blue. She claimed color

made them taste better, but I still despised the grit.


Her trinkets enchanted me. She told me

they forgot to give her ragdolls faces. Her


television glowed from down the hall, as the pretty lady

dropped blood on the snow and named her


baby Snow White. She let me open a special suitcase

to dress antique Barbie, until I left her out once


and she was gone.