The smell of Banana takes me back to a short time in my life.
When my Grandpa Franklin was alive, and Eloise was his wife.
Sometimes on the weekends when I would go to see my dad,
he would take us to see Grandpa and bananas he always had
Sitting in a fruit bowl on the table in the kitchen.
Filling his home with their sweet scent. I could smell it when I walked in.
I have memories of his backyard, the water fountains and porch swing,
the slot machine and old-fashioned phone, the player piano to which we’d sing,
the Tootsie Roll banks and silver dollars he’d give me for my birthday,
the whole room full of beta movies he recorded every day.
At the Mexican restaurant called La Fonda that he and Eloise owned,
he’d give us chips and salsa free and quesadillas and yummy scones.
Grandpa had a deadly habit. He was addicted to his smokes.
Sometimes when around him, I felt like I would choke.
But I loved my Grandpa, and more than that awful smell,
I always will remember the Bananas oh so well.
