The woman sat idle on her old porch swing

And drank tea from a ceramic mug Elsa had

Made for her twenty years before, the

Warmth of the brew taking some of the bite

From a cold morning breeze, though she knew

It would warm up nicely today, rain or not.

Aye, it would rain by the time noon came ‘round

Didn’t need no fancy Doppler or whatever they

Was usin’ nowadays to figure that one out, she

Could smell its coming in the air and the sky had

That peculiar hazy look about it, blurry against

Tree branch silhouettes rising from her back yard.

Days like this, Elsa held sway in her thoughts like

Some pendulum in a room of light and shadow, and

The old woman gripped her mug a little tighter, Elsa’s

Mug, totally unaware of the pain in her gnarled fingers as

She did so, yellowed eyes suddenly far away, looking inward

Now as that pendulum swung a hypnotic dance of memory.

And…

(it had been cold that morning, too, with the promise

of rain and Elsa came runnin’ up to Gramma as her

daddy pulled away, and my! but that child was a bundle

of energy sure enough, long red hair flyin’, all smiles an’

shouts, something wrapped in newspaper held out in front

of her, made it for you Gramma! All by myself at school..)

But…

Oh it was painful to remember such things, Elsa grabbing

Her hand, leading her ‘round back to this very swing, twenty

Years ago to the day an’ no wonder it was plaguing her so, No sense denyin’ it neither, the old woman knew well enough

When Elsa had died, why else had she picked this mug from

Which to drink her morning tea, rinsing off a years worth of dust?

Why else sitting here, where Elsa had presented her the mug

With the kind of innocent aplomb that only an eight-year-old

Could perform, before running to a tree that no longer stood?

And how could anybody have known one of them climbin’

Boards had worked itself loose so soon after nailing them in…

That such a short little fall would become a lifetime of guilt?

The old woman sets her mug, Elsa’s mug, on a small table

Close by the swing, the tea is cold now so cold and she

Doesn’t like where this thought takes her as she glances

At the weathered tombstone where a tree once stood, some

Twenty years ago, best just to go inside and make sure no

Windows have been left open, though she knows otherwise.

Rain comin’, sure enough, you could smell it in the air.

END

“Elsa”