Forty Nine Twenty Two East Third was both the name and the address of my Grandma's house in Long Beach. It was a bungalow filled with Victorian sofas, poetry books, candlesticks, and laughter. It hosted holiday meals and sleepovers and was inhabited by my lively grandma and her cat, Mr. Buttons. It had a vine covered garden in the back, just the right size for a small child's imagination.

With her red painted nails, perfectly manicured blue/grey hair, and elegant dresses (always worn with a pearl necklace), Grandma introduced me to Emily Dickenson, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and brunch at Buffums. She was a movie star, a role model, and a progressive thinking woman. She wasn't afraid to start up conversations with strangers like I was. She wasn't a wallflower, like I, and most of all, she didn't take herself too seriously. There wasn't a poet she didn't like, or an artist that she didn't share with me. (Monet was her favorite.)

She and her magical house were like water in the middle of a desert, and I still drink from those memories to this day.