The forty of them
who are not my grandparents,
I visit them as an adult
the way I could not love my grandparents
as a child.

I visit on Wednesdays and stroke
snowy hair drizzled with grey. I sing
the lullabies my mother sang
to me and listen to
nonsensical monologues:

“I’m going downstairs,” one mumbles
with glossy eyes.
I hold their hands as they
go down. ItÂ’s a hard job for I can only hold
their hands from up here;

their journey below
is theirs alone.
So their minds cloud over,
they donÂ’t notice hair
and teeth falling out;

jelly runs down their mouths.
The air smells of squash and Vaseline.
You think they donÂ’t understand?
“I’m going downstairs,” one says again.
“Will someone be waiting for me?”

01/02/2006

Posted on 01/03/2006
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