June 26, 1915-November 4, 1994
I was born into a golden dream
of an old woman’s heart.
She held me when others could not,
rubbed my ear, whispered lullabyes,
rocked me hard or soft.
I thought I’d always be her doll.
What I held for granted vanished
that November, all the gold
in the world could not have saved us.
My turn to whisper, then, holding
her rosary in both our hands,
my incantations some lament
I could not name. I thought she’d always
be mine to love. Our souls surely rested
together in worlds that do not end.
What would I trade
for one more moment
in the corona of her love,
science of her affection,
calculation of her black pen
working problems in ink
until I understood what ‘x’ equaled?
I would always be her doll.
We could pack the car again,
drive out into the night,
just over the speed limit,
me in my pink seersucker skirt,
her with a map and quarters
enough for any toll.
What river could we not cross,
to get back on that highway
that lasted beyond night?
tags: grandmothers, love, grief