ENOUGH

For years, after he died, my grandfather left her 
every night. As he stomped out of the house,
slammed the storm door, an aluminum echo
shook the indoor porch. He must’ve realized then
that nothing would make my grandmother drop 
the dish rag in her hand, or turn off the oven 
to follow him. Now, in my grandmother’s dreams,
he wakes up at four a.m., yanks his keys 
off the nightstand, loose change from the armoire, 
and buys the paper at Helen’s candy store. 
He plants himself in his rocking chair all afternoon. 
Feet propped on the hassock, he glances up 
from the racing form from time to time, and eyes 
my grandmother’s hands as she dusts the glass 
over their grandkids’ pictures. He stares 
at her flowered sundress—its orange and yellow
loudness—as she vacuums throw rugs, smoothes
couch cushions. Sometimes he follows that dress 
into the kitchen, rests his elbows on the Formica table,
and tracks her movements as she scrubs pans, kneads
dough, knowing it will have to be enough:
the sway of that sundress as she leans 
into the counter, the gold wedding band that dangles 
from a chain around her neck, his worn blue sweater 
warming her shoulders, hugging her hips.

EXCHANGE

My sister and I used to play here. 
We’d race between the headstones—
coal-grey slabs forging a perfect path
to a cluster of evergreens lining the fence. 
Against the wind, we’d rush our bodies,
until our faces were damp and rosy, 
until icy air stung our lungs
and we were panting, doubled over. 

Now there’s nothing to do here 
but cry, regard tears as a language 
the dead and the living share, 
the tongue my grandparents understand. 
I kneel, place my hands on the cold stone, 
press two store-bought roses 
into the winter-hardened dirt. 
I resign myself to this practice,  
to a cloudless sky that seals my world
from theirs.  And to the grass stains 
on my knees—the only trace 
of my grandparents’ touch, the exchange
for a gust of wind against my skin, 
for the warmth of child-pink cheeks.  

THE HEAVEN OF GRANDMOTHERS

Here, the newly arrived 
check their canes at the pearly gates.
Upon entrance, each grandmother grabs 
a beige, faux leather handbag fully stocked 
with an assortment of hard candy, 
bright pink packets of Sweet'N Low, 
and crumpled Kleenex 
that will multiply for all of eternity.

Frank Sinatra’s velvet voice coats the sky
as grandmothers mill about, 
eyes wide in child-like wonderment 
at the sight of miles upon miles 
of mahogany bookcases packed 
with large print Reader’s Digest novels, 
and white aluminum shelves 
lined with an infinite supply 
of canned goods 
that are always on sale.

There are Scrabble games 
and Dealer’s Choice poker tournaments 
in progress on every talcum powder cloud
and a bingo parlor abuzz with recipe chatter, 
loud with patterns and colors 
as polyester dresses bustle to their seats.

In the Heaven of Grandmothers, 
widows are reunited with their long-dead 
husbands. Everywhere they’re seen 
embracing, wives caressing 
husbands’ faces, smoothing their beards 
or brushing coal powder from jumpers, 
rubbing caked beer off jacket lapels.  

Here, grandmothers enjoy 
the comfort of knowing 
they’ll never be lonely, that finally, 
their grandchildren will visit them.
The sight of a lace curtain, a hair pin, 
soft afghan yarn, the scent 
of orange cloves, rose, lavender soap—
these things—they’ll keep those kids 
coming back, again and again, 
like they never did before.  

TICK

This is the last trip we take together,
the one we don’t finish. 

It’s a month after her death, 
a month after three heart attacks
and that Sunday morning 
when the priest lifted his thumb 
and smoothed the sign of the cross 
into my grandmother’s wrinkled forehead.

Now she sits in the backseat of my black Buick 
as we drive to her old mustard-shingled house 
in Queens. She ponders the state 
of its façade—brick stoop, chain link fence, 
winter-frosted windows—
and asks: Will it be as it was? 

I can’t answer this; I can only recollect 
the sounds of that house: the soft tap of shoes 
on the front porch linoleum, 
the rocking chair’s measured creak, 
wind chimes’ high clink 
at the slightest dining room breeze.
And the sharp tick of the grandfather clock,
the pulse of that house.  

I watch my grandmother in the rearview 
mirror.  Eyes closed, a smile stretched 
across her coral-tinted lips, 
she sways to that faint tick.
Streetlamps light her dyed-gold hair.

And before we ever reach her house, it all
falls away—silver lampposts, shrubbery, 
eaves vanish into open night.
But we drive on, watch the stars 
tuck themselves into dark, one by one,
needing to believe
the ticking goes on.

Copyright, Ja'net Danielo
All rights reserved by author.