Grapevines

my grandparents grew grapes that stretched across their backyard, allegedly,
I do not remember them myself; I was a small child when I visited last
but I do remember their roses
those did stretch up and up
towering over their balcony railing
my grandmother peering over the edge, smiling
red and deep pink blooms dancing their slow dance with the wind
while the potted cactuses stood still along the wall
not quite ready yet to join

my father wanted to recreate the grapes
grow his own over our tiny backyard in the suburbs just outside the city
his vision was three separate plants,
arching and twisting their vines from our neighbor’s garage to ours
weaving a blanket of fruit, and a canopy of leaves we could use to make japrak

we never did manage to coax out more than a single sprout
refusing to grow much higher than a pencil until it too withered
we relayed the news to them over Skype, laughing,

for how can we grow them here, o nan, o gjysh,
they’ll only grow for you

Dea Guri is… well this never has a definitive answer, but the constant is that she was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. When she’s not writing, she enjoys terrorizing her friends and scream crying about sports, most notably her hometown teams and Scuderia Ferrari in the world of Formula One Racing. She currently resides in Cleveland with her tiny army of plants, but the ultimate goal is to be soaking up the sun on the stoop of her rainbow-colored house in Burano, Italy, playing guitar with a piece of uncooked penne.