for my grandmother
These days I think of you
on the yellow chaise
with your Parkinson’s
and hatred of telephones,
and make myself call.
I call to let you hear my voice,
news of the children.
Rosie invented a word, I say.
Eli’s obsessed with Taekwon do.
It hardly matters that you are impossible
to understand, I keep talking.
I talk about the snow, the thaw,
some funny thing I’ve read in the paper.
And eventually the recitation begins.
With each call, a few more memories—
spending the night on Bellaire Drive,
making the midnight run
to Meyer’s for fresh bread.
We both know this is it—the list,
the litany, the summary
before the close. Did you know
I once sat for hours
on the floor of the cedar closet
under your pale green dress?