I’m not a poet, really

My grandmother had gall stone surgery Monday and she seems to be doing alright. She was really groggy at first and my mother was pretty concerned. They got her to eat some food and gain back her strength so she could go home, which she is now. I guess they have a nurse staying with them for a bit to help. My grandma is 89. I was worried, I admit. I had this underlying feeling that something awful might happen during surgery. I am just thankful she made it ok. I hope she can hang on just a little bit longer so she can see Elliot at Christmas. Here’s a poem I wrote a while ago that I just re-found. I just thought it might be nice to juxtapose with the above.

What I Remember of Early Morning

Waking up before my parents,

the first to disturb the TV from it slumber,

the settled dust on the hallway tile.

Cautious, like a man checking out the sound

she heard mid-night,

I crept towards the den, that comfy couch retreat,

to revel in the four straight hours

of animated barrage of nonsense.

Sun just beginning to spread an orange hue on the canal,

no one awake but my Grammy in the kitchen,

doing her crossword

eating her milk toast

calculating so many pills to swallow with juice.

In the garage amidst the backdrop of the jazz station,

my grandpa has set up two bicycles on the swale.

First through the neighborhood of sleeping houses,

darkened windows closed eyes, shutting out the sun.

Then the café for food to take home and coffee

for grandpa, which he lets me sip while we sit on a bench,

in a park, overlooking the Atlantic.

Sun triumphantly forging its way above the horizon

painting my face with a memory.

Talk to me

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