Grandma Faye.

She was carried down to the earth on the sun on a summer day in May.

And she was carried up to heaven on the moon on a cold, dark, night.

She appeared in my dream one night, adorned in a purple dress, eating an orange Creamsicle.

She birthed thirteen children, six boys and seven girls.

 

Yet she maintained a slim figure.

 

And she wore beautiful black skin that kept her youthful and timeless.

 

People would often think she was the sister of her offspring.

 

She loved to emblazon her body with beautiful dresses, jewelry, and perfumes.

 

She prayed and went to church every week.

 

And a curse word has only escaped her lips once.

 

She adored shopping and being girly.

 

But she also enjoyed trying her luck at the slots with grandpa.

 

She never allowed her sweet voice to say demeaning things about people.

 

And she had a bright, white, smile that could blind you like the sun.

 

She was born in Texas in the thirties.

 

And she died in Arizona in the nineties, a few months after my birth.

 

But her existence lives with me, in my middle name.

 

Faye.