Monday November 18<\/p>\n
I got off to a busy start today and here it is mid afternoon.<\/p>\n
No introduction to this poem except that it was written by my neice Terri Breeden, another in a series she wrote about her grandmother, my mom, who died in 2005 at 102.<\/p>\n
Storms battered our state, blessings on those who got hit, \u00a0and blessings on the people of the central Phillippines.<\/p>\n
Today’s poem<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Octogenarian<\/strong><\/p>\n I was nine that summer<\/p>\n when you taught me satiated<\/em>.<\/p>\n It came after precocious<\/p>\n and pernicious, but was obviously<\/p>\n and immediately the best word yet.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n We refill the drinks with extra ice, cool ourselves<\/p>\n with condensation,<\/em> that slick of sweat dripping down<\/p>\n our glasses. You proffer crackers; I decline,<\/p>\n satiated and smug about it. You shuffle and deal,\u00a0 while the sun<\/p>\n slowly loses its glower in the Menomonee River.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I place each card carefully, fingers splayed,<\/p>\n intent.\u00a0 I hunch a bit, slanting my anticipation<\/p>\n toward the deck in those gnarled fingers, toward<\/p>\n the sheen of sun on water, the road and the bridge,<\/p>\n the cities on the far side, toward you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It doesn\u2019t matter what we play: 66, gin rummy,<\/p>\n cribbage, even two hands of solitaire, laid out<\/p>\n like opposing armies or fields fresh planted, seven shirts<\/p>\n spaced out on each side of the clothesline, falling straight,<\/p>\n quiet in the fading heat.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n You hold your cards loosely, competent<\/em>,<\/p>\n a word from last summer, but you don\u2019t<\/p>\n always win.\u00a0 I learn to bridge the cards without<\/p>\n spraying any into the porch screen,<\/p>\n dragonflies darting toward the river.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I learn about matrimony from the thin band<\/p>\n embedded in the swollen skin of your ring finger, about eternity<\/p>\n from the way you refer to Grandpa as though<\/p>\n he were still here. And I learn about gratitude<\/p>\n without noticing, even how to spell it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Some things though I didn\u2019t learn, like when you taught me<\/p>\n octogenarian <\/em>and I thought it meant<\/p>\n a person eight decades old, thought<\/p>\n it meant you at your next birthday, never comprehending<\/p>\n that it really meant<\/p>\n you would leave me someday.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Monday November 18 I got off to a busy start today and here it is mid afternoon. No introduction to this poem except that it was written by my neice Terri Breeden, another in a series she wrote about her … Continue reading