...stories that have been filtered through/the rose colored lens of loss...
Original Poetry
I get told stories about my mom’s grandparents
stories that have been filtered through
the rose colored lens of loss
How kind how generous how patient
how loving they were,
These people I met when
I still needed someone to feed me.
I get told stories as if somehow,
Retroactively,
I’ll be able to piece together an entire
childhood with them.
