A Revolution in Grandmothers

MY GRANDMOTHER, when she was thirty-six, Put on a white lace cap (the widow’s mark), Black bombazine, and all the bag of tricks, Lived behind curtains in the cloistered dark, And cast all mirth and music from her door. And so she lived, and died at eighty-four. Not like a current grandmother I wot of, … Continue reading A Revolution in Grandmothers