Your Old Afghan
You took a trip alone and dropped me at the house with the sunken living room and plastic sofa covers, the house where Grandfather rocked alone in a wood chair in the back bedroom, and the air hung in a smoky haze filtered through drawn window sheers. There were no toys at Grandma Rocky’s except the child-sized plastic dolls she dragged out of a basement closet when I showed up. No home-cooked meal, just what she spooned from a can. Sometimes I’d sit at her desk, slip her rubber finger-tip on my thumb, and add numbers on the oversized calculator with the trailing paper roll, pretending to be office-important. Shocking that you had a Band-Aid for every wound, a hug for every heartache, when you came from such icy beginnings. I found a carton of Fruit Stripe gum in the guest room nightstand. Chewed piece after piece until she asked me why I was so wasteful, but I feigned sleep under your old afghan full of holes.
Jodi Morton is a designer and poet based in Evanston, IL. Her poems have appeared in The Write Launch, Half and One, Cathexis Northwest Press, and Beyond Words Literary Magazine. Stay connected to Jodi on Instagtam @jodimortondesign.