Grace

I remember everything that last slow summer
Time moved out of sequence, roses bloomed against the screens
and Grace slept in her chair on the long afternoons
While I sat watch with my sketchbooks and my magazines

“Don’t draw my picture” she said to me “this is not who I am”
So I didn’t
Instead I filled my sketchbooks with the empty space around her
Practiced looking at the world without Grace in it

Stories Grace told that summer all began “when Johnny was little, he...”
Had a puppy or a paper route, then they moved through proms and telegrams
And ended abruptly somewhere in the sky above Italy

We’d look at the framed photo on the mantle: a young man in uniform
Too young, too sad, cap too big too low on his brow
Johnny died yesterday, Johnny died today and he will die again tomorrow

Late afternoon breeze lifts the curtain. Grace wakes
Calls me Helen, my mother’s name. Grandma, it’s Kate I say
And she frowns up confused and my heart breaks

That was the summer Betsi’s baby was born
Named Grace for Grandma, Betsi brought her to visit, just four days old
Grace reached for that baby, held her all afternoon
While time moved out of sequence and roses bloomed

We are waiting for the kettle to boil. I brush Grace’s hair, long white curls
I braid it and pin it up. I say, “Do you remember brushing my hair when I was a little girl?”

We are waiting for the kettle to boil. Grace says: didn’t I have some pretty cups once?
I go to the attic in the clutter of cartons and old clothes find a white paper box, tied with satin, dark with dust
I bring it down and unpack it on the floor, six bone china cups in nests of excelsior
Grace holds one up to the light. She says, “All the years I’ve been saving these
What was I saving them for?”
Here’s a sketch of my grandfather’s overstuffed armchair
Cushions broken in as if they still bore his weight

Here’s a sketch of the dining room table, chairs all pushed back at odd angles
Here’s the west facing window with the lace pulled back on the climbing rose in full bloom
Here’s a porcelain teacup on a hardwood floor, softly glowing in the last low light of a long afternoon

©2004 Annie Gallup

Back to Pearl Street