Rain has cleansed the town,

nourishing the grass and flowers;

I sit on the front porch,

breathing in the clean air.

Suddenly, one of my cats comes running across the yard

and stops, batting at an object sticking out of the ground.

I cautiously approach and poke the blue circular glass object with my foot.

It begins to turn and shake violently, blue smoke rising from the middle.

I am swallowed by the blue smoke and dropped into my grandma’s old living room.

I watch my 6 year old self and my 4 year old cousin, dressed for summer, talking to

Grandma in the kitchen.

We are playing house, we tell her. We need a job.

How about a famous author? Grandma suggests.

I’m teleported into grandma’s living room with blue couches, the one

in front of the window rocks.

I watch as we each sit on a pillow, construction paper and markers

surrounding us on the coffee table.

We write away with little chatter and show Grandma after.

She gives us a quarter for every story.

We feel like good mom’s.

My heart warms.

Blue smoke fills the air and I am brought back home.

What is this trying to tell me?

Publish a book?

I sigh as my cat rubs against my legs.

It’s still my dream.

Later, I sit writing poems with other poets.

Grandma would be proud

that I never gave up.