“coming to the end of spring / my grandmother kicks off her shoes / steps out of her faltering body.”

Who says there’s just one safe way to walk, one road properly lit, and the rest – all slippery water, unmarked?

If our dreams could edit the news (and sometimes our nightmares) these poems are how they’d wake us up to the urgency of our times.

People have often told me that one of their strongest childhood memories is the scent of their grandmother’s house.

I am the product of the sustained indignation of a branded grandfather, the militant protest of my grandmother

One might almost fear,” writes a thoughtful woman, “seeing how the women of to-day are lightly stirred up to run after some new fashion or faith, that heaven is not so near to them as it was to their mothers and grandmothers.

My mother and my grandmother are pioneers of Mexican cuisine in this country, so I grew up in the kitchen. My mom, Zarela Martinez, was by far my biggest influence and inspiration – and toughest critic.

My grandmother has kept all of his stuff in a drawer. This one notebook was particularly chilling. He’s [howard Brookner] writing to his parents knowing he has a death sentence; his movies are how he’ll live on.

I am not ashamed of my grandparents for having been slaves. I am only ashamed of myself for having at one time being ashamed.

When my son will be born, my first goal will be for him. The rest, will be as always for my grandmother.

Modern invention has banished the spinning wheel, and the same law of progress makes the woman of today a different woman from her grandmother.