Dziadzi (For My Grandfather)
By Natalie Gergich
sometimes I go down to the cellar
and I am awed
by the cold and dusty domain of mason jars fur coats plastic bouquets.
they sit on shelves with sad anticipation, dormant as forever through the mild months of May and June
when I would pick agrest and bring the berries to the turquoise kitchen.
Dziadzi would notice the pink of pride in my eight year old cheeks, smile and wink one of his watery blue eyes.