"Ninety-three years seem long
But life is short -
How youth seems strong
But life is short -
How you love and give,
Life is still short -
How "is" a few minutes ago
Became a "was"
Oh, life is so short."

her grandmother        stood at the window in the kitchen

             the corners of her mouth turned up into
                  an unconscious slight smile
                  at the sight
                             of a spinning yellow blur  
                              under the big oak
                              in the middle of the pasture
                              surrounded by green grasses
                                                       wonderous hues of wildflowers

she quietly called out to grandad
                             come see this

                the lanky cowboy sauntered in
                             from the breezeway
                             with his umpteenth cup of coffee
                              peered at the blur of yellow
                              
                              opened the side door
                              stepped out on the deck beside the metal glider and
                                   called out in his smooth baritone voice

                                      sheeeeeelllllliiii...
                                      sheeeeeelllllliiii  lllllloooooooooo...
                                      


she might have
                             been 4
                                   or perhaps five

              precious in the way
                  innocent girls that age are


               dressed in smocked yellow lawn
                                                white lace
                                                patent leather

                                                  up to her shins in spring grasses
    
      slowing her spin
      she turned toward her name

       her face radiant she took a wobbly step or two
      then broke into an off kilter run
                                                 arms stretched out before her

      he took a few long strides
bent his tall body low
offering a bent knee
                 wide open arms


she flew into them with all her might
                   knowing she would be caught
                   rough housed with
                   and given a wickereye

            





                   from the window her grandmother took it all in
                                sighed
                                said to herself
                                         hold this dear
                                         hold this snapshot of the soul
                          

                                         for.                           ever.

I sat on my hard, green footstool, still, in my grandma's front room, musing over the warm madeira crumbs on my blue-veined white plate.

I climbed up onto my granddad's chair, as familiar as the aroma of his St. Bruno flakes, infused into the dark promise of his worn, warm desk, impatient for his return.

I'm waiting still.

Little girls can be sad
Or is her blue gaze but fixed into the bubbling fountain
caught in a tale that adults cannot grasp?
Pops taps her shoulder
We must go, he mutters
Granny is waiting

Little girls can be sad
an ugly word
a wrong dress
an angry teacher
a friend gone astray
lack of purpose for a long walk downtown

Little girls can be sad
Holding grandpa's hand she performs
a subdued dance to the music in her head
not touching forbidden stones
and without Pops noticing
a quick splash in the puddle

Little girls can be sad
But not for long this time

counting down
10 [sighing thoughts, aching fingernails]
9 [ugh where do i go now]
8 [falling apart...]
7 [my eyes are slowly blinking now]
6 [at the sight of your frail broken body]
5 [the quiet beeping next to you]
4 [my own heart is picking up]
3 [oh god oh god oh god]
2 [the beeping is rising the beeping is rising]
1 [i'm crying now]
**silence

I sat on my footstool,
In my grandma's front room,
Staring at the warm madeira crumbs
On my blue white plate.

I climbed onto my granddad's chair
As familiar to my eight years
As the flakes of his St. Bruno.
And I was found there,
Next to the smiling promise
Of his dark desk,
Waiting for his return.