It's Not Always Pretty
Sorrow requires memory. Just ask that old lady.
She’s either angry or she’s happy, but never for more than a minute.
There’s a moment, and she’s in it: that’s all.
It’s not always pretty.
That lady is my grandma, but she does not know it.
That lady might love me, but she don’t know to show it.
Still, it ain’t as if she’d thrown it away.
I’ve known the loneliness passed on from my grandma.
It haunted her awfully, but now she has forgotten,
Like she pared away the rotten parts.
It was not always pretty.