For as long as I can remember,
the chair across from the television
was where I would sink into for safety.
She was there, my grandmother, sitting
on the couch: half Indian-style, her
left foot curled under her right knee
and her other leg stretched out, hanging
off the edge of the cushions.
On commercials, she’d lean lazily
on her left elbow and look over at me
while I spoke about the things that were
breaking me. I knew better than to talk
out of turn; Survivor and Wheel of Fortune
were the things that were to be concentrated
on. Life could be handled in due time.
I laid my load down on her coffee table,
knowing I’d have to pick it back up before
I left. It felt lighter, still, for a little while.
When things were at their worst and I could not
catch my breath, she’d hop up while I was still
talking and tell me to speak louder till she got back.
When she returned, she’d be struggling
to carry four butter pecan ice cream cones,
handing two off to me; a quick fix
should come in two servings, I learned.
Part of the mess usually leaked down the sides
of her hands; she’d lick it away like a child,
and would say she forgot napkins,
but we’d make it alright.
Originally published at Stone Path Review – Spring 2014: Volume 3, Issue 10. Found here.