Crawlers

"Macy Jean Marie,

quit monkeyin' around

in my workshop,"

grandpa would say

as I clanked his loud

and heavy table clamp.

"Grandpa," I'd whine

with my high little voice,

bare feet trampling up

the hollow basement steps

and into the kitchen

with fruit-adorned wallpaper. 

Grandma would be sitting

at the kitchen table

in a pastel checkered shirt,

knitting on a circle needle and

letting the tricolor yarn ball dance

across the floor when she pulled.

"Grandma, can I paint?" I'd ask,

my tone small and absent;

"Of course you can, honey," she'd answer

with a knowing smile,

giving me one of those coloring books

where all I had to do was add water. 

"Can I play with buttons now?" I'd say later

once I had made a sufficient enough mess;

"You know where they are," my grandma would say

as I ran over to the hall closet,

where a time-worn shoe box sat on the lowest shelf,

heavy with buttons of all sizes and shapes and colors. 

I'd pick that box up with all of my might

and sit crisscross-applesauce with it

on the living room carpet,

and I'd sort through that whole box until sunset

with small little fingers plucking the pretty ones

off to the side to be off on their own. 

My dad would come and pick me up from grandma's

when the streetlights clicked on

and he'd sling me up into his arms

to let my sleepy rubber neck fall down onto his collarbone;

"Thanks mom," he'd say even though she was only an in-law,

and I would wave goodbye over his shoulder as we walked to the car.