read them in books.
They’re the matriarch of the family;
to be respected,
to be asked permission,
to be sought after for advice,
to be loved.
Yet mine gives me bad juju feelings,
to disappear when she visits
and not to engage the enemy.
When I do,
I grit my teeth,
until she leaves.
Why can’t I be like other granddaughters,
happy to see my grandmother?
This is a battle
and I mustn’t succumb to the wishes of the devil.
If I do it would make her happy.
I shall never relinquish my sarcasm.
I shall be the most hated grandchild.
I shall hide the good news from her.