Foreword from the Author: This piece came from a personal place, inspired by those universal moments when we find ourselves standing at a threshold, garbage bag in hand, wondering if we’re still welcome. I wanted to capture that specific feeling of shame mixed with hope, and the quiet realization that sometimes love doesn’t need grand gestures or perfect explanations—sometimes it just needs you to show up and accept the sherbet that’s offered.
I’ve kept things intentionally vague about what exactly broke between grandmother and granddaughter. I think that allows readers to project their own experiences of failure, disappointment, and reconciliation onto the narrative.
What matters most to me in this piece is the ending—not because it resolves everything, but because it suggests that resolution is possible, that some doors remain open even when we believe we’ve closed them forever.
rainbow sherbet
My grandma has what we call an, “open door policy.”
That just means we can walk in whenever we like,
and never have to give her a heads up. Although,
now that I’m standing here with a garbage bag in my hand,
and looking at her nicotine scented 2010 Ford Focus,
I wonder if she would really ever take me back at all.
The oldest granddaughter,
The pride and joy,
Has now been reduced to
Nothing more than
Student loan debt,
A half empty tank of gasoline,
And a single pair of clothes.
The driveway gravel
crunches beneath my feet.
Four years away and the lilac bushes
have grown wild around her mailbox.
I remember helping her plant them
the summer before college.
“They’ll be taller than you when you graduate,”
she’d promised, cigarette dangling from her lips
as she patted the soil down.
I hesitate by her hollow screen door,
listening to the lingering, low sounds of her television.
The Golden Girls glowed, giggling grandly.
She steadfastly streams shows for the company.
My fingers fidget with the flimsy frame,
frozen in fear.
The soothing sounds of Sophia’s sarcasm seep through,
sweet and sharp like limes.
Dorothy’s deep drawl drifts through the doorway,
the backdrop of countless bygone breakfasts,
when problems were passed with pancakes and patience.
Now I pause, petrified on her porch,
wondering whether Her worthiness will wait for me.
I wonder if she’s lonely without my Sunday calls.
Three months of silence between us.
Three months of pride and shame
tangled up like the Christmas lights
she never manages to put away properly.
What do you say when every choice you’ve made
has led you exactly where they warned you not to go?
What words make up for disappointing the one person
who never asked for anything except
occasional updates
that you were still alive
and eating something besides ramen?
The door squeaks, it always has,
and suddenly I’m ten again,
sneaking in after staying out
too late catching fireflies.
But I’m twenty-two now,
and the weight on my shoulders isn’t
childhood mischief, but adult failure.
She doesn’t turn when I step into the living room.
Just says, “Took you long enough,”
like she’s been expecting me all along.
Like she knew before I did
that I’d end up here.
Her kitchen smells the same.
Coffee grounds and those
cinnamon air fresheners
she buys in bulk.
The table where I learned multiplication,
where I filled out college applications,
where I once promised her I’d make something of myself,
sits unchanged beneath the flickering fluorescent light.
She doesn’t ask questions when she sees my garbage bag.
Doesn’t mention the radio silence
or the tear-stained note I left after our fight.
Instead, she opens the freezer,
pulls out a container,
and sets two bowls on the table.
“Orange sherbet’s still your favorite, right?”
she asks, her arthritis-bent fingers
struggling with the lid.
And just like that, I’m home again.
The prodigal granddaughter returned
to the only unconditional love she’s ever known.
I sit across from her,
both of us bathed in the harsh kitchen light,
spoons clinking against ceramic.
Between bites of sherbet that taste like
childhood summers,
the words begin to form,
and I know that whatever I say,
whatever confessions spill out,
her door will remain as open
as her heart always has been.
About The Author: Georgia Coomer is a senior at Lindenwood University pursuing an English degree with an emphasis in Creative Writing. Her poetry and prose have appeared in multiple publications, including The Albion Review. When she isn’t wrestling semi-colons into submission, she can be found playing the latest Persona game.
You can read our interview with Georgia here.
Bill Geblato's Lotto Gelato Grotto 