Two little rooms in a little apartment,
With little windows and little doors
And the littlest lady of them all,
Sitting, feet barely touching the kitchen floor.
Knitting little sweaters for little children
With eyes of blue and hair the color of wheat,
As they sprint across the narrow hallway
In the midst of that summer’s heat.
She poured us warm chamomile tea
And sliced freshly baked bread and butter.
Little feet dangled off the chairs
As we dipped our fingers in palettes of watercolor.
When the wind arose in the afternoon sun,
We put our little shoes on and sprinted down the stairs
Tripping around corners as we missed steps
But as long as we didn’t bleed, we didn’t care.
And in the garden, we picked white mushrooms,
Daisies and weeds, for there was nothing that grew
That wasn’t pretty. The swings were rusty
But still they swung, little feet against the sky’s blue.
When we tired, we sprinted up,
Feet muddy and hands latching on
To petals and stems, tiniest gifts.
“Grandma will love these. Faster! C’mon.”
When we arrived, top of the stairs,
Excitement pouring out, out of breath,
Door never locked, no need for a knock,
Grandma always heard us running up.
She opened the door. A rag on her shoulder.
How fondly I remember these days.
Rose-tinted memories, now that I’m older.
Tamara is an eighteen-year-old poetess and writer pursuing a degree in Literature at the American University of Beirut. Dabbling mainly in themes of loss, love, and longing, she emphasizes the impact human emotions have on the psyche.