Can you tell I love to take pictures?
Can you tell I like the colour blue?
Can you tell I enjoy sharing photos?
Can you tell particularly of nighttime views?
Now I’ll tell a little story,
One that might seem somewhat whimsical.
It is only one of many tales,
Of my grandmother, white-haired, and thin.
She impressed upon me something very beneficial,
It would become my greatest asset.
To do my utmost “best” at every task.
Whether it be washing dishes,
Or scrubbing on my knees, the floor.
She suffered with glaucoma,
Her sight slowly dissipating.
At a time when way back when,
There were no remedies.
But she utilized her fingers,
Skimming plates, cups and utensils,
Or the floor to feel whether it had
Been washed without being swept.
Then I would get a lecture,
Of my laziness and sloppiness,
If she found a needle, or safety pin.
Penny or a bobby pin.
Then when all was done to par,
Out came the pictures she adored.
We loved to look at calendars,
Pictures large enough for her to view.
We treasured them by fondling and quaint observation.
Inch by inch, each part was scrutinized,
Cherishing views from other worlds.
Once our time for play was done,
Returning them to seclusion,
Within dark, secret drawers.
Locked away with a skeleton key,
For another time too far away.