Poetry Reading

     Yesterday I ate lunch with my 85-year old grandmother. My mom, sister and I made the 20-minute drive to her home and picked up food to go at Bob Evans, my grandma's favorite restaurant. I am convinced that Bob Evans is some sort of Mecca for wheelchairs, oxygen tanks and purple hair dye. We were the youngest people there by at least 50 years. But they do have good soup and salad; I'll give them that.

     My grandma isn't as sharp as she used to be (understandably), but I always have fun talking with her. During our time together, she told stories from the Great Depression, from the time her family lived and worked at the fairground, from a time when people sewed their own clothes. She also informed me that the love of cake baking runs in our family blood, and that there is an ancient, glass, cake stand to prove it. (Although that might be true, I'm a little nervous that domestic finesse skipped my generation.) She reminded me that her left eye is still giving her trouble, that her feet still swell, and that she still has to take a handful of pills with every meal. I don't want to be old.

     As promised, I brought along my poetry portfolio from writing class. I sat next to her while she patiently read through my work. My grandma has always loved poetry. When I was younger, I used to have sleep overs at her house and she would read me a book of children's poems before we went to bed. She used to write her own poems, too. She keeps the yellowed papers in an old shoe box, in a forgotten drawer in her bedroom. I am determined to help her find them sometime, because I know I would enjoy seeing them. After she read my poems, she recited some of her own poetry, at least, as much as she could remember. They were simple and beautiful.

       I told her she probably passed the love of writing on to me. She just smiled and said, "Yes, you always used to write me stories for my refrigerator. I would show them to my friends when they came over for a visit." She paused for a minute and then began reciting another poem as it peeked out from the corner of her mind. It might seem silly, but I think that yesterday was one of my favorite moments with my grandma. Reading poetry together on a cloudy, Wednesday afternoon. And as her memory begins to fade, I hope that those are the kind of times she will be able to treasure, too. 

Summer

by Heather D. Moline

She smacks her lips together and she smiles

while sunlight folds into her gentle curls.

She takes a breath, then putters, laughs and tries

to blow another bubble to the sky.

The tree transforms into a hideaway

where cops and robbers meet to have a fight

His box of secrets, stashed beside the trunk,

is marked with X and safely out of sight.

She learned to lace her skates all by herself

though balance didn't come as easily.

The race begins-- To lamppost. Touch. And back.

She took the turn too fast and scabbed a knee.

But summer sets, realities arise.

Imagination waves its last goodbyes.

Hopscotch, marbles, jump rope, trade them in

for war and tax and saturated fats.