T
literature

Three Photos of My Grandmother

aquaviann's avatar
By aquaviann   |   Watch
0 0 82 (1 Today)
Published: March 2, 2008
You're fifteen in a bathing suit:
Long milk legs, dark swish of hair,
Half-turned on the porch, gazing
Down some road behind the camera.

You're thirty-four in a pale blue dress:
Sharp chin and soft smile pointed at Mom,
Who is eighteen and nervous
In her homemade wedding gown.

You're seventy in a t-shirt, cutoffs:
Salt-and-pepper hair, rib-deep in water,
Admiring the dragonfly
Perched on your upturned wrist.
Recommended Literature
L
Loss, in Five Acts
i. Return Through a dark tunnel of bent birch and cedar I walk. Soft moss on cobblestone. Home. The tilted bird bath drips with tea coloured rain. Vines snake up old walls even as the sandstone crumbles. Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming smiles, heavy with dead leaves and the fallout of terracotta tiles. ii. Memory On her lap, in the evening, swinging on the front porch chair. Humming a lullaby, she whispers softly and marks with a brush of her ringless finger, magpie and minor, chicken and hen and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed. At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving and waiting. At hometime, she i
F
Frailty
I see it in her sinking eyes, the silence of their gaze--a child batting at the final thread of life, nine for nine. Darker days pass with worry tumbling deep in its high-walled pit. I see it: something that says this is the last, when I touch the curve of her back, the rise of spine, the uneven quiet of her response while winter bulks and burns with its oppression of frost. I see it in my brother, the care of each hand as it arches over bone. There is hunger, but she does not eat-- only laps at a small drinking bowl-- and I tell him this is it, it is now: but he insists as love does--wandering dove in the dark cave that is d
L
Late Afternoon, Dublin
Kingdom I sit on the slippery stone steps, at the gates of my Father's heaven. My back to the cold wall enough, that men in dusty pants and mud-laden boots can thump past, their tired, weary legs fly fast across my freckled face. Father inside, far end, a stool-throned King, his face not fat but swollen, and sometimes our eyes meet through cloud and darkness, when the door swings open to let another thirsty angel in or out, for in this chamber, the trip from Hell to Heaven is measured only by the length of a glass of dark ale or a honey coloured shot of sour whiskey. Outside Angie skips back and forth across the
© 2008 - 2019 aquaviann
In memory of Antha Vivian Manning (December 7, 1935 -- May 1, 2007).
Recommended Literature
L
Loss, in Five Acts
i. Return Through a dark tunnel of bent birch and cedar I walk. Soft moss on cobblestone. Home. The tilted bird bath drips with tea coloured rain. Vines snake up old walls even as the sandstone crumbles. Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming smiles, heavy with dead leaves and the fallout of terracotta tiles. ii. Memory On her lap, in the evening, swinging on the front porch chair. Humming a lullaby, she whispers softly and marks with a brush of her ringless finger, magpie and minor, chicken and hen and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed. At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving and waiting. At hometime, she i
F
Frailty
I see it in her sinking eyes, the silence of their gaze--a child batting at the final thread of life, nine for nine. Darker days pass with worry tumbling deep in its high-walled pit. I see it: something that says this is the last, when I touch the curve of her back, the rise of spine, the uneven quiet of her response while winter bulks and burns with its oppression of frost. I see it in my brother, the care of each hand as it arches over bone. There is hunger, but she does not eat-- only laps at a small drinking bowl-- and I tell him this is it, it is now: but he insists as love does--wandering dove in the dark cave that is d
L
Late Afternoon, Dublin
Kingdom I sit on the slippery stone steps, at the gates of my Father's heaven. My back to the cold wall enough, that men in dusty pants and mud-laden boots can thump past, their tired, weary legs fly fast across my freckled face. Father inside, far end, a stool-throned King, his face not fat but swollen, and sometimes our eyes meet through cloud and darkness, when the door swings open to let another thirsty angel in or out, for in this chamber, the trip from Hell to Heaven is measured only by the length of a glass of dark ale or a honey coloured shot of sour whiskey. Outside Angie skips back and forth across the
anonymous's avatar
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Sign In
©2019 DeviantArt
All Rights reserved