Grandma at the Window

Grandma sat at the window

For hours,

With her laced brogues planted

Her hands gripped in her lap

And her pale lips prim,

Staring into the street below.

When I was seventeen I thought:

What does she see down there?

What goes on – to interest her

So intently – for hours?

I wanted to push in front of her

And block the window,

To take her gnarled fingers

Into my eager young hands;

I wanted to smash her solitude!

But some inherent wisdom

Stayed my ignorance

And I refrained.

Somehow, I understood …

Grandma was not alone.

It only seemed that way

To seventeen.

Grandma sat with memories

Of unseen people and places –

Happenings –

More real to her than each breath

Sighing

Under the glittery brooche

Pinned to her breast each day.

Her solitude was bearable;

But the tension of her thoughts

Was greatly troubling.

I remember turning away,

Wondering:

‘When I am eighty-five – alone –

With the memories of my life –

Will my fingers clamp together?

Will my mouth be so sour?

Will my spine press up severely?

This image of Grandma at the window

Is a crystal message.

When I am old, what will I look like?

I must think about that -

Now

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas

44 lines