Since analysis
Of social media started,
relationships interaction,
stability,
and viability
decrease by 73 percent
year-over-year.
Since analysis
Of social media started,
relationships interaction,
stability,
and viability
decrease by 73 percent
year-over-year.
We all take steps.
I did
as I was told.
I went
to the ER.
I saw
doctors, nurses, NPs.
I filled out
all the forms
as I was told.
I waited
on insurance.
Now I’m watching
my leg rot off.
When you suspend disbelief
about who you are, then
you can come to believe
who you truly are.
Today,
I saw gorgeous seas,
billowing golden clouds,
bright blue skys,
frothy waves,
elegant birds,
majestic trees,
bright and colorful wildflowers,
lush landscapes;
a fantastic sunset;
but when I viewed
a picture of my granddaughter
for the first time,
I simply muttered,
softly:
“Beautiful!”,
and wept with joy.
Decades after I turned
my first garden dirt
with a shovel,
clearing away sterile lawn
for food and scent and joy,
I didn’t know my last time,
the time at the helm
of a rototiller,
would be so emotional.
Someone else,
hopefully another family,
will now grow and prosper
in this garden,
in my once yard,
in this house,
where Smashing Pumpkins
and volunteer tomatoes
and lemon balm
and popcorn popping apricot trees
and temple roses
and forget-me-nots
and kornblumen
and black walnuts
and the Kirkland rhubarb hat fan club
once grew
and flourished
and prospered,
but where there are now
only rotted logs
and cut stumps
and smooth dirt
and the old mossed rock,
and memories.
Remember/
that time/
when was sunny/
in Seattle/
and I was texting,/
looking at my phone,/
and I missed it?
It’s such a common thing
among
the sisters of Zion.
So many walls up.
So much fear.
And worry.
And don’ts.
And can’ts.
And shouldn’ts.
As though they think
anyone will think
less of them
for the less
that others do
to them.
As though we
who have been
or could be
there
would ever
deride them
for seeking,
quietly,
for the help
others force them into.
They feel bad
and hide
and suffer
inside,
instead
of letting charity
never fail.
Grandma
lived alone,
central Wisconsin cottage
built with her husband’s hands
before he died,
too early,
there.
She was not
cottage-bound.
She could go anywhere.
But there,
she chose to stay
there
in her cottage home
and grow old.
Little neighbor girls
brought her wild flowers,
and colored leaves,
and crayon’d pictures
they’d drawn.
Eager and happy
they would show her,
and she,
with her
“Oh, how beautiful!”
exclamations,
would put the flowers
in a Blatz beer glass
on the bar,
or would tape
the colorful drawings
onto her old, white fridge,
and would chatter
excitedly
to the little neighbor girls
and learn of their day
and teach them cards
and flowers
and wild birds
and mysteries of
the lake
and the woods
and the pond
and hot chocolate.
When I,
first-born grandson,
would visit
from college,
or from traveling,
or to come home,
she would show me
the drawings,
and tell me
excitedly,
about the little neighbor girls,
M and S H’s kids,
and how wonderful they were,
and how they always
came to visit,
and how she loved
talking to them
and sharing with them.
I met them
a coupla two-tree times,
that Wisconsin way,
as they brought
wildflowers
and drawings
and love.
“Oh, how beautiful.”
Time passed.
I was there,
she and I,
alone,
when she did, too.
That sacred experience
etched deep in my mind.
A great soul
flying home.
Sometimes the little girls
would still come by
the cottage,
but it was never
the same.
Her great heart
which had filled
us all
had stilled,
and all we had
were memories
and love.
Many years later
I met
one of the little neighbor girls
unknowingly.
We were both
grown now,
a woman,
no longer little.
She needed
someone tall,
(which I am not).
And I,
aged,
didn’t know I’d seen her
and her wildflowers
and her crayon’d drawings
in Grandma’s kitchen.
We smiled
as we recalled
Grandma’s love
and warmth
and excitement.
Then,
tears welled up
as I thought of
Grandma,
alone,
in that cottage.
Most widows
whither
and dry,
and die.
But she,
surrounded by beauty,
and love,
flourished for decades.
Looking forward
to walks in the woods
and geese flying
and cardinals, finches and chickadees
feeding by the window
and crocuses and daffodils and tulips
and wildflowers
blooming
and ice out
and first frost,
and bright red/orange leaves.
And,
amidst it all,
little girls
who visited
daily,
when I could not,
who loved her
and let her love them
for years.
Extending her life
and her love
for decades.
Sobbing now,
I realize
the great gift
they gave
my Grandmother
and my family.
I don’t know
how to thank them.
I don’t know
if they can understand.
I don’t even know
their names.
I can only say:
“Thank Heaven
for my Grandma’s
little neighbor girls.”