On Sundays, grandma waits for me to call.
Sometimes I am on the bus, or buying bread,
or lugging parcels home. You’re always going places,
she laughs from her soft leather armchair.
Some weeks, I make her proud by saying things
like I made bean stew, or remind me,
do we add chubritsa to this? Other weeks
the time escapes me. I’m on a train and see
the burnt red skies, which means
the late-night Turkish shows are starting
and she is clutched onto the railings
dragging leg after weak leg up
along the stairs. I message her,
I’m sorry grandma, call tomorrow?
and she responds at midnight with a poop emoji.
This morning, she is talking and my mind
drifts to the lemons rotting in the fridge,
a lightbulb flashing. Then
a distant dog bark fills the air.
Do you hear it there?
she asks me. And I do.
