On Nesting

I’m becoming a grandma soon.
I nest more than my daughter does,
throwing crochet blankets over chairs,
arranging the hummingbird pillows just so,
symmetrically placing perfume bottles
next to framed pictures.
Hoping to be clean and ready.
And hoping to erase the dirt and grime
from my own mind.
I hope I can hide the sadness
from my grandchild that has chronically

marked my days since childhood.
The fact I am now old and alone.
And I remember my own grandmother,
once so beautiful, how she lurked quietly
in the shadows of our living room,
dark, withering rose, detested by my mother
for her inability to flourish.
In the hospital, I traced the intaglio
of raised blue veins in her hands,
not understanding why she was so adamant
on being delivered unto death.
And now I wish I could go back and whisper,
Grandma, I understand.