I think of my grandmother
whenever I use butter generously.
They say it’s bad
but she lived to be 90,
and that would give me
an extra third.
I think of my grandmother
whenever I pass the cemetery
and remember
when she told me
everyone’s dying
to get there.
I think of the old house
up on Lone Star Avenue,
yellow with green trim,
full of love and laughter
even though she lived alone.
There were always
Little Debbie’s Devils
in the cupboard
and handwritten letters
on the desk.
I think of my grandmother
whenever I use butter generously.