Grandma's Rug S. Ambrose, 2024 Remember Sunday afternoon in the basement of make believe, A place I've had to let go and grieve. While we played, upstairs adult hearts tore apart Wearing masks to play their dictated part. Afraid of vulnerability, their feelings fell down, Slid their way under and around The corner of Grandma's rug. Year after year, I wondered who would care. Were there Smiles across our miles? Was reunion reserved only for church aisles? Our family neatly filled up a pew, But no one really knew How far apart our hearts sat. Now, there are empty chairs around our table That make family feel like a lost fable. The worn rug sits high, creeks with heartbreak and sigh, Filled with unspoken words of shame and judgment, Grandma's rug is in need of repair and a loving adjustment. It swells with anger never addressed and hard to digest. It's be...