By Julia Pisani '21
When I think of Nana, I think of
A wrinkly laugh,
And butterflies. Nana loved butterflies.
I think of the seashells and sand dollars
That lay scattered throughout her house,
Beautiful treasures that reminded her
Of the beach she’d always loved.
I think of her house, how it smelled like sea salt and
How every square inch of it was covered in pictures.
I think of her late husband Gramps,
How her face lit up at the mention of his name,
And how she could talk about him for hours.
They were married for sixty-one years.
I found a picture of Gramps
When we were cleaning out Nana’s house.
It was on his ninetieth birthday and
He was blowing out his candles.
On the back, Nana had written
In her signature cursive,
“Love of my life - what a man!”
I think of how I never used to see many butterflies,
But ever since Nana’s death, I’ve seen them everywhere.
I think of how old people are like candies,
How they’ve have seen it all,
And they choose to either be sour or sweet about it.
And I think about how Nana was the better kind.