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:

Im going downstairs, one mumbles
with glossy eyes.
I hold their hands as they
go down. Its 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 dont notice hair
and teeth falling out;

jelly runs down their mouths.
The air smells of squash and Vaseline.
You think they dont understand?
Im going downstairs, one says again.
Will someone be waiting for me?

01/02/2006

Posted on 01/03/2006
Copyright © 2026 Lisa Marie Brodsky