It's the little things.

Straightening the mat in front of the door,

and getting back up right away.

Leaving milestones on the mirror,

coming in and going out. Most people can’t wait,

it’s said. "Being Grandma or Grandpa IT?  Great

is not the word!    But it’s like the army.

Hurry up and wait.   Not everyone enjoys

the privilege.   Not all there is, after all.


Wiping one’s crumbs off a counter

toddlers no longer climb.

Dropping recycled bags in a glass

seen a lot of service, then making room

beside an African violet too persnickety by a mile.

Nearly died last time. Time

and sun do their magic, someone will have called

with, "John/JoAnne has cancer.   Just found out."

Papers and TV will blare Senator No-to-

MediCare is recuperating nicely from a bypass

in decorator-spiffed rooms (six?).   Meantime,

at the market,  a parent mutters to goodies

can only be reached with help,  "If only they

can help Katisha." "Leon," "Mary,"

"Will." Names change like the funeral sprays

florists charge arms and legs

for. Tomorrow means another grave

of someone else who was there.


The cross the sun paints on the tile.

Crossing a room without limping once.

Humming an oldie, so there.   No one sees

beyond the curtains you brighten with Cheer.

Sight may be dim, but a body remembers, okay?

Snow on the roof! That’s the ticket!


Dusting the TV’s worn glass eye,

then a carnival gimcrack brings a grin.

No doubt it’s going to outlast. . .

feeling the ticker give

 

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  October, 2004