"Granddaughter", she said
over the colorful star of our Chinese checkers game.
"I need you to do something for me."
I looked up with interest, willing to do anything
for the woman I'd adored for all of my thirteen years.
I was the eldest of her youngest, and we had a bond.
I didn't know then, as I do now,
how she grew up under the kitchen table
playing with a single precious doll,
out of the way of seven elder siblings,
a careworn single mother,
and the millstone of the Great Depression.
How she'd married her junior-high sweetheart,
and stayed with him through the thick
of four daughters and his successful career,
and the thin affliction of his alcoholism.
Back then, all I really knew was the softness of her hugs,
her love of family, and the concern she had for my skin
when I lay too long on her excessively textured bedspread.
"Please, please, take care of your elbows," she said solemnly.
Wide eyed, I pulled in my arms, covering too late
the offending dry, gray elephant skin.
I promised I would, and I have, mostly.
As I grew and she dwindled,
life's concerns grew beyond my elbows,
and time with her became fleeting and precious.
She will never know my daughters,
but they have her sparkle,
and they will know her,
how she said to face up to what life brings
and know that it’s going to be better.
To just do the best you can
and try to be pleasant.
Her grace flows in my blood.
I hope it deepens as I age,
settling my bones, calming my temper,
helping me face the world as she did--
with a brilliant smile, a cast-iron good nature,
and of course, deeply moisturized elbows.
(c) Heidi K. Allen, May 2021
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