Your fingers, wrinkled and bejeweled,Grasping mine, nails painted in dirt,We dance to a Glenn Miller song-Your favorite 40s hit, “In the Mood”We swing, you hum, short-breathed but smilingYour eyes golden with the energy of an entire jazz band
Adorned in a black robe with pink flowers,You hug me so hard I am breathing silk,Our visits were always cut short,”I must go home to mow my lawn,” you explainOr to manicure your gardens with the big white flowers,It was always one of the two.
I can picture you back in Albany watching a Celtics game, The New York Times sprawled over your glass coffee table,You’re squinting through the tiny frames of your reading glasses,Filling out the weekly crossword with years of practice.If I were there you’d ask me to play with your hair And you’d soon fall asleep with a booming snore.
If I were there, Grandma, I would sit on your lap, Smelling a delectable potpourri of smoke and perfume,Nibbling on Jordan Almonds or Halls cough drops,Whichever stash I had come across first.I’d be anxiously awaiting our chicken fricassee dinner,Rest assured your recipe remains unrivaled.
Grandma, if you must go back from where you came,In your grey Saab with manual roll-down windows,Waving until you are but a speck in the distance,If my begging for just one more day of your company has failed,Then please give me one more Grandma Hug and we’ll call it even,Just as long as you’re saving me another swing dance.