It must have been a high-end sanitarium.
The plates she painted there were Limoges.
I thought for years she was an artist.
I did wonder why we had those, when all
Dad’s banker father left him was a gold dollar.
The rest went to the second wife.
My family said I didn’t look like anyone.  They said
Grandmother was in and out of institutions before
dying young. They would have mentioned TB.
But my eyes gaze back at me from her 1910 portrait. 
Why did no one mention this resemblance?
Did they fear insanity was catching like flu?
It must have been a high-end sanitarium
where she painted all I knew of her
perfect roses, lilacs, forget-me-nots.

Published by

Cynthia M. Sheward

Cynthia Sheward has written poetry since she was a child. She was born in Massachusetts but spent her young life in New Jersey. She applied her English degree from Arcadia University teaching junior-senior high school in Vermont the 70’s. In the 80s, she and her husband built their own house with their own hands in the mountains of North Carolina. In the 90s, she returned to NJ where she worked for a Fortune 500 corporation until her retirement. Her work has been published in Friends Journal, Evening Street, the Bennington Banner, Fiber Arts Magazine, the Mountain Times and various other print media. She currently resides in Jupiter, Florida.

4 thoughts on “GRANDMOTHER”

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