Random Prompt #10

[Lizzie]

Sestina

Grandma never baked her fruitcake
once her children all left home. In slippers
padding through the house, she sipped her coffee,
humming opera verse from memory. Headaches
came and went with memories, sniffles
blamed on onions sliced for supper. Pennies

once bought licorice—her penny
jar sat full enough to stuff a fruitcake,
sweet with artificial flavor. Sniffles
came from having grandkids; slippers
warmed her fevered feet. My mom got headaches
frequently, so Grandpa brewed the coffee

strong when I stayed over. Sips of coffee
were a treat—her teaspoon held a penny.
Sometimes, mother's mind got lost in headaches;
she would say she always hated fruitcake.
Shrinking down, she swam inside her slippers—
thin as pens, she always had the sniffles.

I'd pretend to get the sniffles,
ask real sweet for Tylenol. The coffee
kept me up with worries, loud as slippers
slapping bare linoleum. A penny
wouldn't pay for decent fruitcake—
Grandpa's jabs gave dad a headache.

Grandpa joked that we were headaches,
feeding kids cost more than just a sniffle.
Unemployed, my dad could not buy fruitcake.
Every day brought Jeopardy and coffee,
guessing Price is Right, but wrong by pennies.
Grandma's lap was plush as Christmas slippers.

Wheel of Fortune's word was slippers
on the night we learned the headaches
vanished. Mom gave Grandpa pennies,
payment for our food and all the sniffles
she'd been spared while we were sipping coffee,
unaware she'd turned to fruitcake.

Grandma's slippers dream where there's no sniffles.
I cure all my headaches sipping coffee.
I'd pay any penny for her Christmas fruitcake.