Aging

A poem about the relationship of a grandmother and her grand daughter

Along the edges of her head,

Thick, course dreads dangle.

Hanging, competing in length to touch her shoulders.

Her crown, she says, is perishing.

“I’m going bald at the top like my mother.

I sure do miss my mother.”

Weak fists collect her hair

like debt.

Her fists that fought so many

that shook tables in frustration

that pounded the chest of her husband

and her daughter,

now give her great grief.

A pain that predicts the weather

and makes her feel each new grey hair.

“Time sure does fly.”

After grooming and groaning from frustrations

of a penetrating ache,

She rubs Bengay on her knuckles

as the ceiling fan swirls above her vigorously.

Contemplating calling off from work

because the pain has traveled to her knees

her hips

her back

her head…

“Why don’t you come massage your grandma?”

While  my thumbs work counter and clockwise

along the coast of her tired leg,

the Bengay opens my sinuses

and I remember the last time I was this close to my grandmother.

She raised me each day of my young life,

sometimes I was the sun to her

a lot of times I was a dark cloud, heavy with sorrow

because my young mother promised to come back for me,

but never did.

“You’re being too rough. Take your time with me child.”

Even now I wonder if my grandmother ever wanted to hug me?

And if she did, why did she shake her fists at me instead?

Reviews

[Nico Reznick]

'Weak fists collect her hair
like debt.' This was such a powerful line.

Tragic and well realised.