Grandma, Passing Through

Floss and Wilf Marr

She was larger than life,

when I was four:

twinkling eyes, a sense of humor,

lots of cackles.

She and Big Boy, the cat,

had a running game over

whether or not he'd make it

out the screen door

before she let it fly.

He would calculate the distance warily:

the lovely scent of the outdoors,

the pressure on his bladder,

but Her, standing holding the door

open invitingly.

Would he make it through this time?

Was it worth it?

How badly did he really

need to pee?

She enjoyed this game

much more than the cat did.

In the morning I'd wake to the slap

of water hitting the vines

on the side of the house,

as Grandma cooled things down

against the heat of the day.

Her yard was always abloom:

sweet pea and mint,

forsythia and mimosa,

and roses, twining the arched trellis

over the front gate,

where I'd hang, late afternoons,

swinging back and forth,

waiting for my parents

to pick me up

after work.

Late morning, as it was getting hot,
she'd lower the awnings

like sleepy eyelids

over the two front windows.

At naptime, she'd lie down beside me,

her warm, comforting, womanly body

lulling me off to sleep in safety.

No screams or crashes ever woke me

from sleep at grandma's house.

Her kitchen clock ticked

loudly and peacefully

on the kitchen shelf.

I could hear it in the back room,

where we'd sit, listening to

the crack and rumble

of the thunderstorms

Grandma loved in summer,

waiting for the metallic scent

just before the rains

hit the parched earth.

We "watched the fairies"

dancing in the fireplace

on quiet winter afternoons.

She was all I knew of stability.
She showed me, by living it,

that life could be normal, routine,

safe, peaceful.
I searched for a life like hers
through my growing years,
until I claimed solitude,
and found it.

She could be stern

I was more afraid of her displeasure

than I was of God's.

She said she had "magic glasses,"

that she could see me when I was at home,

and I believed.

She told me of a perfect little girl called Vivian,

who had wonderful manners

and never did one thing wrong.
"Vivian would never do that!"

All us grandkids hated Vivian.

She chortled with delight,

walking home from afternoon tea,

at how I'd said "Haaaaaah, Miss Hicks?"

when I didnt understand her question.

"Haaaaaaaah, Miss Hicks???"

my grandma teased,

fairly chomping with pleasure,

while I blushed and bridled.

When my Grandma was old,

in extended care,

I repaid her for all the hours

she gave to me as a child.

"I'm still here,"

she'd say disgustedly,

as I popped my head

around the door.
"I'm just

too damned healthy!"

We'd sit under the trees,

or at the window

watching the sunset.

I sat with her as she lay dying,

that long week.

Bending over, I whispered into her ear,

"Thanks for all the love, Grandma"

and watched a single tear

run silently down her cheek.

At the funeral, we played her favorite

"Galway Bay" at the end,

and my mom broke down.

On the bus going home,

I was thinking of Grandma

and all the years,

when the notes of Galway Bay

tinkled through my brain,

from left to right, and away.
I wasn't thinking of the tune;
it just arrived, in one side
and out the other.

Instantly, I said, "Hi Grandma,

I love you,"

as the notes exited my brain,

for I knew that it was Grandma

passing through.

for Sarah at dVerse, where the topic is grandmothers. Mine meant the world to me. She actually saved my life when I was a child, by showing me there was another life than the one I was living.