Her eyes were wild
Bouncing from side to side;
Her face locked
Into an expression
Of constant surprise.
“She’s crazy …” they would whisper.
Her hair flew about her face
While her arms squeezed
Tight about her tiny frame.
Her stick-like legs,
Gnarled with aged veins,
Would move amazingly fast,
Chasing through the yard.
“She’s crazy…” they would whisper.
Like a cat she would sneak
Behind you in the hallway
Scaring the bejesus
Out of you when she
Unexpectedly tapped your shoulder.
“She’s crazy …” they would whisper.
She grinned, she cackled
She loved to eat blackened bananas.
“They’re sweeter,” she would say.
“She’s crazy …" they would whisper.
Every Sunday she would
Pull on that old straw hat
Tied at her chin with
A ragged satin bow;
Black patent leather shoes
And white ankle socks.
“She’s crazy …” they would whisper.
Her head bowed
Her lips moving in silent prayer
She sat alone on the wooden pew
Her pennies added to the collection plate.
Her voice joining loudly
In every hymn.
“She’s crazy …” they would whisper.
They found her in her room
Hours after she had passed.
A framed picture of Jesus
Smiling down at her bed.
Her hands clasped as if in prayer,
A sweet smile frozen to her face,
“She was crazy …” they whispered.
They never understood,
And that was … crazy.