Dearest Gram

I wrote this a year and a half ago -- she still asks for her tea -- .


I went to the nursing home, never understanding why

the old and the infirm are fractured in time,
interned in umber days,
last thread.

Life's crosswind never lost, never having felt sorry
for herself, she sits perched, compliant and alert,
speaking of days when she and sister eyed pairs
of shoes, in Gimbal's store window,
on the way back from the bullet factory,
during World War Two.

Persevering, I pull out the clothing catalogs
and we vicariously shop.
She picks outfits and tailored pieces with taste and panache.
Never missing a beat, she has still got class.
Cultured from a time when she attended society
benefits, all night cocktail parties,
and drank 'till they were smashed.

The Smirnoff vodka, just a look at the vermouth,
a CC and water, maybe a Camel to boot.
Canasta and arguments
long into the night.
My brother and I never slept till light.

She asks where those days are
and is grandpa still alive?
To break her heart all over again,
I simply lie. She wonders about
my father, her two brothers and three sisters,
I hesitate briefly, but never tell her they died.

She outlasted them all playing musical chairs,
she won the game and can still see them standing
around while she sits and waits to lose.

The blue medal prize is living,
ruminating in the yarn of what went before,
in a home shared by others, too late
to control their destinies and body functions.
Lasting pride to cover the shame.

I look all around me; please give me some hope,
that she won't be afraid; that I won't be afraid,
and don't let her fall again, please orderly be her friend.

I kiss her soft cheek and look into her eyes,
I promise a day or two and she mocks surprise.
We share a laugh, then picking up my things
I memorize once more, her beauty and light.

I walk by Station 2 to remind them,
she would like her afternoon tea,
one sugar, please.