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Grandmother

Rosalie Hendon

Maybe it’s because
I never knew what to call you

Your own mother was “Grandmother”
to my mom, and she always said it

the same way: severe,
a slight frown, brows drawing together

You were “Meemaw,” a name I didn’t like
even as a child

(Vowels too close to a donkey’s cry)
Christened by your next-door grandkids

When we went to Spain together, the summer
I was 18 and you were 77,

I started calling you “Abuela,”
claiming the Spanish word for myself

You obligingly signed your cards this way for years,
but it never rolled off my tongue

The last years of your life, I switched to “Grandmom,”
and if it felt overly formal

it was better than the alternatives
But there was always a slight distance,

a not knowing how to place each other,
and I wonder if it started because

I never knew what to call you

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