he sat bedside with his great grandmother stroking a hand laced with what he saw as tiny blue rivers, flowing from a thin wrist dammed by ancient knuckles
boulders chiseled by eighty-four years
he read from his book while Mommy dozed in the chair, and nurses squeaked in and out, all with half smiles he could not decipher, for Grammy was sick
and when his mother was awake, she cried
he hadn't seen her tears before; he tried not to look, preferring his book with its pictures of the sun, orbiting planets and mazy moons
and spaces in between where heaven might hide
he understood most of its words, and none were of heavens--unless noxious gasses and swirling clouds of dust were the winds which whipped through the pearly gates
but his seven wise years knew that was not so
when he turned to the page of the penultimate planet from the sun,YOU-ruh-nuss he discovered it took four score and four years to orbit our star once
math's mystery may have eluded him
though coincidence was not yet in his lexicon, and now he knew Grammy had her times around the sun, her eighty four equaling one for the great tilting Uranus
Uranus, the next to the last planet from our sun, takes 84 years to make its orbit