grandmother liked the chair in the center best

and we liked her there, too

where we could watch her long thin fingers

pull the needle though the fabric

as if playing a long necked instrument

rather than stitching the shades and lines

of my father's face

my sister and i played over their heads

angels with a propensity to hover low

while tossing the earth blue ball from under my bed

still wrapped in the dust clumped beneath it

nestled behind the toy trains and springs coiled

wire snakes made to hold us up in our adventures

as wild pirates or crying siblings in fear of life

and my sister's favorite pony -- always

was there, held high above her head

a plastic sacrifice to artificial Gods

and glances into the future of faiths

brightly colored and animalistic

that she could never have expected

or believed in

all there

honoring her age and grace

in the exquisite lines in her face

her wisdom and the scent of her dress

(lilacs scattered along an old dirt road)

branching out and beautifying

flowering

everything she touched

she commanded the animals with a smile

(well, the dog)

and a steady heart

(but cats are cats)

and the cat yearned for her quiet time with grandmother

when the high back chairs of visits were put away

grandmother having

set her family

and her stitching

aside

at last