Once a week, when I was about five or six years old,
my grandmother took me with her
to visit a few of the local bars
in her poor rust belt town outside of Pittsburgh.
Through the haze of cigarette smoke
and the scent of old memories and gin,
she’d quickly catch up with friends
and sign the book in each joint,
which entered her into 50/50 raffles.

‘Hey, Dolly’s here!’ the old souls would call out.
The drunkards and spinsters cracked smiles
across their aged faces
in familiar enthusiasm,
a sincerity only possible among people
who’ve known each 50 years.

As grandma nursed a beer or club soda,
the bartenders eagerly fed me cherries
while I spun on barstools and giggled in delight.
In every joint we visited,
there was always at least one guy,
handsome in their day, yet still charming,
they’d give Dolly special attention.
‘You look as beautiful as ever,’
was a common remark.
Grandma always smiled,
for a moment forgetting
about her wrinkles and false teeth.
‘You’re nuts,’ she’d say. ‘Go boil your head.’
The men chuckled, always,
and then they’d ask after my grandfather,
the man they respected,
the man who’d won Dolly’s heart
in that long lost era.

More than twenty years later,
during grandma’s final months in the hospice,
she made a confession.
‘I’ve always loved your pap,’ she said,
‘but a lot of men found me beautiful.’
‘I know.’
‘Women need to hear it sometimes.
Remember that.’

I always have.