She carries a woven basket, my Grandmother
in the mid afternoon sun
Petite in stature four feet nine with getas on
she wears her hair in a simple bun

She gazes up with a hand to her brow
from the tops of the cotton trees to the ground
Her squinting eyes searching each tree
for opened pods of brown

Seems like a never ending job
she'd collect them and separate
Pods and seeds from white cotton fluffs
for into futons will be their fate

I'd often help her, though she never asks
maybe it's because of my little stature in size
But with every pod my little hands found
she'd smile with tears in her eyes

Always with cinnamon candy tucked in her cheek
she'd always offer us and we never learn
Pinstriped strawberry balls frosted with sugar
when the sugar melts our tongues would start to burn

Crosses or without, each passing church
she'd put her hands together to bow and pray
She always tell us we're the family's treasures
which made us feel special she'd remind us each day

You can hear her busy getas clopping about
washing and ironing clothes and sewing covers for futons *
Whirring away peddling her Singer sewing machine
my Grandmother could move mountains by stones

Many years have gone by
now you're just a sweet memory
So many lives you've touched
I wish you were here to see

I remind myself of the tiny cotton fluffs
when I'm down and feeling blue
how much labor and love to make just one futon
I would often think of you

All the love you've shown
to this little boy
Fills my heart with thankfulness
and my eyes with tears of joy…

Arigato Oba-chan! eiji

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