Tristan Dersham
Was my great-grandparents’ quaint apartment at Covington Oaks,
near the end of Scottsville Road.
The little coffee table with her bowl of M&Ms.
The crunch when I bite down and taste the chocolate
that spreads over my tongue.
The adults talked while I explored her bottles of perfumes and lipsticks.
The pale skin tone one I’d slide open, and gently tap on my lip.
Surely, she wouldn’t mind?
Then the family packed into her little red van,
and I heard the beep of the automatic door as it slid open.
A smell of car wipes and fabric hit my nose,
as my family stuffed me into the back.
We walked through consignment shops
where I tried on every old-styled hat.
Some with fancy lace in front dangled over my eyes.
She might have worn one like this in her youth.
I twirled around to ask
“Did you wear one like this!”
Then we’d stroll through Greenwood Mall
the holiday season upon the walls.
She’d always pick out a pair of PJs
for me to wear on Christmas Eve.
With a gentle shake of her arm, she’d pick a pair
usually from JC Penny.
As the evening would tick down,
we’d have a big meal back at her apartment.
Voices drifted from the kitchen,
while I lay on the couch.
Now that I reside in Bowling Green,
I remember fondly, every time I pass
the Covington Oaks sign
or drive down Lovers Lane,
the weekends of my childhood
spent in Bowling Green,
to come see a quaint little old woman, who really loved
to go to the Kroger on Scottsville
in her little red van.
