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American Portrait 18
by Ken HarnischOn the occasion of her seventy-ninth birthday
Bessie Mosby turned aside all the gifts
She’d gotten, the sweaters she’d never wear,
The scents and rouges she’d never let touch her skin
Again, and stared for a long time at a card that had arrived that
Afternoon in the mail. Some dim candle of memory
Had been lighted and she thought she knew the Wiry Hand that had addressed the envelope
But realized it couldn’t be.
The hand writing had been dismissed along with The writer
When she’d met Ben Mosby in 1949 and when She’d married him
And though she glanced at the assembly in the church
For his face, at least once, it was only to confirm
Her hopes that Robert “Big Bob” Watson wasn’t there.
As she told her daughters later on, wistfully at times,
It may have been the first time
In her life that Big Bob hadn’t disappointed her.
She turned the envelope, something in an off-white
And a little frilly, Hallmark Gold Crown no doubt,
And put it on the table twice, puzzling her eldest daughter,
Grace, who thought it strange she would lift the thing
As if to measure its heft and perhaps its contents
Without making an effort to open it, before she put it down
“I thought he was dead,” someone heard her mutter
And then she smiled, realizing, if she thought that, Big Bob had done
His best to disappoint her once again.
“He lives in Fulton County,” Grace said, to
Her sister’s feverish admonitions to open the damn thing
“Read it if mama don’t want to,” which the older sister,
Being something of the curious sort,
Finally did after one sweep of a dull silver kitchen knife
Across the envelope
“His wife died three years ago,” the daughter said. “And he was wondering if
The same Ben Mosby he read had died in Atlanta in 2002, was
The one who married you.” And after a pause, perhaps a tear,
Grace said, “and of course, he wishes you a happy birthday mama.”
“That is kind of him,” Bessie said. “And you will do Me the kindness of
Writing my reply in which you will thank Mr. Watson for his interest and his
Generosity and of course, compliment him on his Memory, which I always
Recalled was sharp as a tack and apparently maintains its integrity and strength to this day.”
And then Bessie paused and said, “And then you will ask Mr. Watson, graciously of course,
Why it took him fifty-eight years to send me a birthday card and remind him
That, since it did, I remain sorely disappointed in him.”
She was married in coral, and the groom wore white, a tuxedo
They had to squeeze into his now-much-larger Frame, but who cared?
In the pictures he is beaming
And his broad flushed face is locked into the gaze of hers, thin and age-worn, but also
Beautified by the rejuvenation, which love, delayed or otherwise
Can bring to the skin and the heart, no matter how
Many years and memories lay upon it.
And as he folded the tissue-like fingers of Bessie Mosby into his own,
Big Bob Watson smiled and whispered through her silver hair that it was his mission
That night, when everyone had gone home, not to disappoint her ever again,
Certainly not on her wedding night, which caused Bessie to roar with laughter
And the guests not in on the conversation to wonder if finally, the lovely old woman
Hadn’t taken complete leave, as they say in the fading elegance of the Old South.
12/23/2007 Posted on 12/24/2007
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kate Demeree on 12/27/07 at 03:25 PM "Timelessly Beautiful"... and wonderful to read! Made my heart very happy... *smile* Merry Christmas Ken, and thank you for this heartening read |
| Posted by Carolyn Coville on 06/13/08 at 05:48 AM ohhh I had a feeling I had missed an AP! So glad I got the chance to read this one, it is heart warming and wistful as ever. |
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