Grandma knits lop-sided doilies
of yarns of many colors
since her mind left her
unable to spin her own ninety years worth
and her eyes left her
unable to see asymmetry.
They're pawned off on guests
bags and bags in the closets
a failed attempt to sell them
at a yard sale once thankfully forgotten.
Someday, when she goes, all those
who possess the multicolored monstrosities
will go on mad dashes through their homes
to get rid of the sad reminders
unable to cope with the tokens of her life and death
but not me.
I will be picturing her humming
those Spanish gospel songs, tiny wrinkled hands
working diligently at the yarn in her lap.
Her subtle sense of humor
her final joke on all of us
will not be lost on me, and I'll smile
knowing that I should celebrate her
last victory in the face of death that'd make
great generals fallen on the battlefield jealous.
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1 comment:
You know I was near writing a story about those doilies just days ago? Granted she's your grandmother and you clearly get dibs, I still had it in my head about those doilies.
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