Grandchildren are Precious Diamonds

 Martha Ellen

 

By Martha Ellen

I've collected four poems about my grandchildren. Joyful hours with them like diamonds. They are all grown up now.  [Hidden from view are the traumas. These poems look the other way from later events when a New Age guru crashed into my family and stole away all of them with, of course, the lies he told and then cloaked in "love" and "beauty" and "righteousness" ..... and there are days when I think they may walk through my front gate again and we will recapture the joys of those early years.]


After My Heart Failed I Didn’t Want the Children to Be Frightened

I visited my grandchildren for the 
first time after my heart failed. 
When I arrived six-year-old Caitie 
was sitting in the curve of their black 
leather sectional I had named the
Black Mamba. When she saw me 
she jumped up, "Gramma!" 

Clairey was just a tiny baby. 
We all got into a tent four-year-old 
Liam had set up in Clairey's room. 
I made his doll "Minty Fresh”
fly all around the tent which 
for some reason they found hilarious. 

Then I couldn't breathe 
and had to get some air. 
All the way home. “Breathe. 
Go slow. You’ll make it.” 
Unlocked my front door.
Alone I entered into a 
long and dangerous sleep.

 

Sleepover

I arrive for a sleepover 
with the grandkids.
An overnight bag and vanity case
all stuffed with goodies.

Fairy wings, a Barbie princess 
gown, black Converse hightops
flames flaring on the sides.
The digging begins. 

“I don’t know why I
just like looking though 
suitcases.”  Cait said.
She’s six. Her brother helps. 

They run to me with a glass 
prism found hidden inside.
By magic it breaks daylight 
into gorgeous rainbows.

Caitie says, “Grammy I know 
why you take so many pills.”
“Oh, why do you think?”
“Because you’re soooo old.”

Liam drags a chair down
the block. I will be comfortable 
admiring him as he rides
back and forth on his new bike.

Clairey offers to apply 
makeup. I needed some
dolling up. Lipstick. Eye shadow 
goes on the upper lid, though.

Time to get ready for bed.
I tell them I’ve perfected
the ability to throw my pajamas 
into the air and jump up. 

When I land my pajamas are on.
Behind closed doors. 
Too bad they can’t watch.
[I’ll be bare-naked.]

“I better hear two thumps,”
Cait said. And Liam: “You’ll
need wires from the ceiling
[His dad is an engineer.]

And from behind the 
closed bathroom door
I hear three-year-old
Clairey. “I can’t, Grammy.”

“Practice makes perfect.”


Smooches

Sad and puzzled Clairey came to me 
as soon as I arrived. “Grammy, Liam 
never lets me kiss him.” She was five; 
her big brother was nine.

“Do you remember the day you 
both were at the pool?” I ask. She 
remembered. “Liam saw a man 
walking away holding a little girl 
with long brown hair like yours. 
Thinking you were in grave danger, 
Liam set aside fear. He ran after him
yelling, Stop! Stop! That’s my sister!”

Liam arrived with his buddies. They’d
been skateboarding. Independent. 
Big boys. Nearly grown. They had no
time for any smoochy little sister. 
Barely noticed her fly by in her silly 
fairy wings old Grandmother brought.

When I was packing my suitcase, 
readying for the long trip home, she
came to me. “Grammy, Liam loves me.”  
“Yes, he does even without smooching.”
We wave goodbye, throwing kisses 
to each other. Liam and his skateboard
friends sail past us without looking.


Bad Grammy

It’s all my fault.
I pampered her.
My beautiful baby girl.
Let her get away 
with everything.

So there was no one 
to blame except me
when she dropped 
a pound of frozen solid
hamburger on the counter.

“Grammy will make lunch.”
She was off to a Spa Day
leaving me with three
hungry grandchildren 
to feed. It was 11:30 a.m.
I would figure it out.

I lifted the block of meat
and dropped it several 
times. Clunk. Clunk.
“This isn’t lunch.
This is a rock.”

They watched my every 
move knowing full well
what may happen next.
It would be something iffy,
probably naughty.

“This belongs with
the other rocks.”
They followed close
behind as I walked
out the door, onto the
rock path in the garden.

“Grammy hucked the
meat in the yard!”
We piled into my 
car and drove to
their favorite restaurant
where they ordered 
whatever they wanted. 

The Transition of my Beloved

 Peggy Trojan

 

  
David and Peggy Trojan

By Peggy Trojan

These poems convey the transition of my late husband 
and myself from his diagnosis of Lewy Body dementia
to his eventual death in 2020. 

Death Do Us Part

When we were young and eager
we promised to stay together until death.
We could not imagine a disease
called Lewy Body dementia would
over years destroy everything.

First forgetting facts, dates,
names, where you were going,
movies, books, conversation,
how to play the piano, then flying,
driving.

And now the devastating loss
of balance. You fall
over and over, inside,
outside, even holding the deck rail.
You say, “I feel lost.”
I answer, “Me, too.”


First Night

I leave you at Memory Care.
Trust a bevy of staffers
in their twenties
to cope with your waking,
your walking, your falling,
your dreaming.
Tonight we sleep alone.
I miss your hand
reaching for me in the dark.


Together

We transfer you
into the small apartment
I had rented on the river,
filled with furniture
and art from home.
Every item familiar.
Daughter Mary moves in.

You nap on the couch,
your head on my shoulder.
We are happy, hold hands
like young lovers.
Presence heals us.
When I kiss you,
we smile.


Simple Joys

On the balcony
with sun and birds,
you are more talkative.
“This is a new heaven.”
Your sense of humor is back,
you thank us for our efforts.
“Mary, you’re a peach.”
We watch Packers, Brewers,
fishing, Planet Earth.
“I saw this one before.”
Listen to Brahms and Beethoven.
Share daily photos with family.

We wheel you
on downtown river walks.
You wave at kayakers
from the bridge,
greet dogs we pass,
eat takeout in the park.
Find our way to Olson’s for a cone.
“Strawberry, of course.”

One day from across the living room
you announce,
“Peggy, I’m still nuts about you!”
Four months,
every day a gift.


Destination

You died as you lived.
No complaints, no demands.
Quietly at home
with Mary and me,
whispering my name.
Kids phoned goodbye,
We held hands.
Focused, ready for adventure,
eyes open to see
where you are going.


River
 For David

Stay on the river now,
it will lead you to the sea.
Someday, I will meet you there
with all those we have loved.

 Listen, can you hear?
 The river is singing.

All poems published in River, 2020.

My “Real” Dad

 Wilda Morris

 

 
Orville Leroy Kessler 1944

By Wilda Morris

My mother was divorced when I was two. All relationship was cut off between my birth parents. Mother and my sister Dorinda lived together with my grandparents in Iowa City. When Dorinda was in kindergarten, Mother was asked to go to New York to help out with the children of one of my aunts while she was expecting. That is where the first story takes place. My birth father returned, probably just wanting to see us, but his ill-advised way of doing it made it feel like a kidnap attempt. 

Meanwhile, Orville Leroy Kessler, was recruited into the army. He could have become a conscious objector, but a recruiter convinced him to become a non-combatant instead. As US soldiers fought their way from North Africa to the northern boarder of Italy, he cooked, aided the medics and performed other tasks important to the war effort. By the time I was in Junior High, he was a widower, moved back to Iowa, and joined our church. The rest, as they say, is history. He and Mother were married and (many years later) he adopted Dorinda and me. We never used the language of step-dad or step-daughter. Mother and Dad gave us a brother and two sisters. The language of half-siblings was never used - we were all just family. Eventually, we sealed it in court - Dad adopted us. We could not have wished for a better father!

The only one previously published is "Because Dad had Parkinson's." 
Encore: Prize Poems 2021 (National Federation of State Poetry Societies, 2021).


The Soldier

A young soldier in dress uniform 
walked down a street in Schenectady
in 1944. I suspect he was anticipating 
a date with his fiancé. He was handsome 
and he smiled when I waved at him. 
I don’t want to remember how I grabbed his arm
and dragged him to the door of my aunt’s house 
where we were visiting, but I do.
I clung so hard he couldn’t shake me off. 
My mother wants a soldier, I insisted.
I can’t forget my mother’s face,
startled and scarlet, as she said,
I’m so sorry. I don’t want to remember
the scolding I got when he was gone.
I imagine he laughed when he told
his girlfriend about the goofy
five-year-old down the block.
For years I imagined that if 
he hadn’t been engaged,
he would have fallen in love 
with mother and I would have had
a handsome soldier father.


Pieces

A piece of me still
wonders why Sis and I
let the neighbor boy
entice us to the corner
with the promise of a surprise.

I remember that man
luring us to come closer
and closer to his car
and told us he was our dad.
Sis took off toward home
like a startled rabbit,
leaving me a statue 
glued to the ground.

A piece of me does not
believe I was on her heels
as we flew through
the front door into Mother’s arms,
though that’s what 
I’ve been told over the years.

What I do know is this:
A piece of me still stands
at the corner of 8th and H Streets.
When the sun is setting
and the street light blinks on
you can see me there,
my face white, a wild look
in my eyes, my feet cemented
to the curb, my lips as mute
as they were that night
when I was eight.

 
Wilda’s parents on their 50th wedding anniversary


Because Dad Has Parkinson’s
With two lines from “Two Kinds of People”
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Because he has to get out of the car
to see the doctor, I get out of the back seat,
open his door, say, Here we are, Dad, 
in my cheeriest voice.

Because he smiles but doesn’t move,
I say, Dad, can you turn this way? 
I watch his slow pirouette, 
if I can use that word for a man 
in the passenger seat of a Toyota
turning his upper body more slowly
than a sloth, his knees barely bending
toward the door, his feet refusing to follow.

Because Dad can’t seem to lift his legs,
I ask if I can help move them. The master
of serving reluctantly agrees, lets me
lift what feels like trunks of ash trees.
My sister, the driver, appears with a walker 
as Dad’s feet fall to the pavement. 
It takes another six minutes 
to get Dad standing, another fifteen
to get to the office door.

Because over the years Dad gave rides to friends 
and cash to needy strangers, helped Aunt Grace
climb stairs, lifted children from his car 
to wheelchairs so they could attend Sunday School,
delivered casseroles and home-baked cookies,
carried my suitcases into the house
when I went home to visit, baked pies for Uncle Laird
and Aunt Ersel, stirred oatmeal, popped corn 
for a house full of offspring and friends, 
mopped floors at home and church, 
I suddenly recall two lines of the old poem 
Grandmother used to recite:
. . . the two kinds of people on earth I mean,
Are the people who lift and the people who lean,
and know Dad has earned the right to lean.


Losing Dad

The day my father died I tripped upon
a phone cord, smashed my head against the wall.
My sister dropped the phone and lost the call.
My brother, not content to just look on,
summoned a nurse to Mother’s room, face drawn,
expressed concern for me because my fall
was hard. It was not half the pain to sprawl
head bashed, as lose our father who was gone,
I thought, forever. Now I find each day
my dad shows up to give me good advice.
His shadow spreads across the greening yard;
his footprints firm still guide me on my way.
I see him in my brother’s smiling eyes.
Somehow I know he’s always standing guard.