Mucca

Pin curls perfectly placed, paired with pomegranate red lips.
Barely grazing the five-foot mark.
Hands always on her hips, one eyebrow playfully raised.
A smile that spans miles.
Whoooo, she exclaims as she jitterbugs across the dancehall floor.

A woman who had it all before it was trendy.
Career, children, and a lumberjack of a husband that loved her so deeply, he traveled to the unknown first.
Back yard barbeques, bottles of wine, and more dancing.
Can’t forget church on Sunday.

Her nickname, pure accident.
The grandkids couldn’t pronounce Grammy.
Fast-forward 25 years
and she is still Mucca.
The moniker is proudly displayed
on her license plate.
The five letters glittering in the sunlight as she drives past.
What’s MUCCA? People always ask.

Her cooking, sometimes questionable,
expiration dates are just polite suggestions to her.
But her fresh marion berry pies, oooh, orgasmic.
She has a quirky way of pronouncing some choice words, Th-a-ya? No Thai.
Only sits down long enough to figure out what’s next on her to-do list.

Took care of every walk of life until there was nothing but a shitzu dog left in her home.
She dwells in a cumulative photo album of her life
Every nook and cranny has a memory attached.
She’ll never leave it.
Her sassy, stubborn nature is still seen in the glint of her pale moss-colored eyes

No matter her age, makeup on before 7 a.m.
Women aren’t supposed to run, it jumbles their insides, she tells me
Sentimental salty stained cheeks regardless of hellos or goodbyes.
Hardships and a deep caring for others have forged the beautifully creased folds upon her olive complexion.

Still, nights of giggle-filled tipsy laughter, gossip and the twist.
Whoooo, she exclaims.
I’m old enough now to get to know her as a woman.
God, I hope she lives forever.