To my grandmother

From the stuttering window
I look outside, exactly at five
My eyes know how to find her
An easy task
‘Cause she is
the only lone walker
in the empty street
The old lady
Her hair as white
as untrodden snow
Her gait, careful
like a potter’s hands
She carries
raw vegetables that’d
last only a day
Such that each morning
becomes a routine adventure

Everyday, when I wave at her
She looks at me with those familiar eyes of a stranger
And a smile as mischievous
as that of a pirate after plunder
But she never waves back at me,
my grandmother

Maybe she thinks
I won’t be at the window
after her acknowledgement
Or maybe once again she
has forgotten how to
remember me