ODE Poem: Ode to Lala, by Corinne Wagner

The mother to my mother,
And Lala to me,
The greatest story ever told,
In my family.

A sweet old lady,
With wrinkles on her skin,
Each telling a story,
That we wait to begin.

Her voice pretty shaky,
Whenever she spoke,
Yet somehow strong,
Like the roots of an oak.

When I was first born,
She was seventy-nine,
Her fourth and last grandbaby,
She’d ever hear whine.

She sent me sweet, silly things,
Like coloring or a crossword,
Maybe she thought I was eight,
Which was a bit absurd.

Growing older into high school,
She sent me different things,
Like photos from long ago,
That pulled on some heartstrings.

Whenever she wrote something,
Her handwriting was iconic,
Sometimes it was hard to read,
And sometimes it was ironic.

I sent her emails and texts,
And she didn’t always respond,
But that was very normal,
Because there was still a bond.

When she did text back,
It was usually the same,
But each time it made me happy,
Whether it’s exciting or tame.

She was nothing but good to me,
And I love her so much,
Though we weren’t very close,
I miss her just as such.