Twelve  #79

At twelve I saw light 
shoot out of the ends of her hair,
and Lawrence Welk was a TV staple.

I never owned 
a Barbie, Skipper was her name.
(much better
than Barbie, I could
make her hair grow.)
I asked for her every time 
I went for the weekend.
(grandma would never 
let me take her home.)

Grandpa was always shirtless 
and sweaty,
coming in from the yard; 
khaki pants with green knees.
Bringing in broken tree branches
and putting them in water.

The green glow of mason jars 
half filled with water 
emanated from every table. 
In the back porch 
the smell of must grew 
stronger with each step. 
It looked like some scientific 
botany experiment was taking place.


Pinecones and acorns embalmed in liquid, 
slimy plants hung limp over 
the rim of water jars. 
A leaf stem submerged in water; 
grandpa's original plant respirator. 

Dishes of past patients; 
leaves, sticks, and branches all too
pretty to expend. 
One by one grandma would sneak
and throw them away.

My grandmother invented 
the "shell stitch" 
just for me.
I watched her soft 
butter hands move 
without hesitation;
loop after loop 
like some magic trick.
"Ivory to match your complexion, 
I'm making this 
for my Holly-Dolly",
she said. Her eyes 
change to pity
as grandpa 
passes through the room 
with another 
mason jar.

Each weekend I watched 
her love grow, first covering her lap, 
past the hem of her house dress
and eventually crawling its way past 
flowered print slippers.

Last night while cleaning out my closet 
a smile slowly rose to my face 
as I looked up to the top shelf,
My fingers pulled down 
an avalanche of Ivory.

Seventeen years ago, 
grandmother's back was sore;
her fingers ached of arthritis 
for this very moment.
A woman nuzzling like a child 
to her grandmother's bosom. 
Skein after Skein of yarn; a tapestry 
of missed years softened in time 
and fused into soft warm fuzzies.