The Poetry Marathon

A few days ago I turned
seventy seven. As my 
family celebrated around me, 
I realized that in ten years 
I will be eighty-seven, 
almost ninety. 
My two youngest granddaughters 
will be fourteen, almost 
seventeen. 

When I was seventeen, I don't remember
thinking "what will I be doing
when I turn twenty-seven?" My
life was ahead of me. Love, sex, six children,
goats, chickens, gardens, deaths,
arthritis, glaucoma, high blood pressure ... 
all in yet to come.

In ten years I'll be eighty-seven, 
almost ninety. If 
I'm still alive 
and the world hasn't
ended.

We drove all night, the 
car full of
sleeping children. 
Talking quietly to
keep each other awake, we 
yawned and waited for
morning.

Will we ever gather again like
we used to? Maybe the younger ones
will. They already do. Us old folks,
not ready to die yet, we’ll gather in
dibs and dabs. A child and their children
here, another child there. A granddaughter,
a grandson, a visit masked. A visit after
testing.

Last Thanksgiving eve was the last big
gathering for us. After that, the covid
meandered through the family, up one side and
down the other, hitting some twice.

The novelty of zooming long
gone. Plague without end.  Thankful
we’re all still on
this side.

I had just graduated from college. I
was leaving home to seek my fortune.
Traveling by greyhound from Detroit to
San Francisco.

My sister and I sat on the side of the bathtub talking
about “Come Back Little Sheba”, a movie we had
recently watched on television. Why we
were in the bathroom sitting on the
side of the tub I don’t remember. Something
struck us as funny., although the movie is far
from humorous. We cackled. We chortled. There
was even a guffaw before we began to howl.
Right about then, tears started and the chuckles
turned to tears. Arms around each other,
we managed to bring ourselves under
control and rejoin the household.

I did leave and go to San Francisco for a week or so,
Traveled by train back east to DC where my
sister was in college. Getting a reference from
one of her teachers, I moved on to New York
City where I stayed with a friend of his and got a
clerical job at City University. About that time
a letter from my one true love caught
up with me. After two months on the road, I
caught a plane back to Detroit and began
the rest of my life.

The circle of lights
reflects through the window,
hovering in the yard like
a flying saucer.

My sister and I sit
at the red kitchen table eating
cheese toast. The
cheese stretches between
our mouths
and our toast until the
rope breaks.

You cut the garlic in the kitchen
prepping dinner for bean curd and

spinach. Tofu pressed and ready to lightly fry
to a toasty brown crispness, a
contrast to the soft spinach and inner curd.

They said half a clove of garlic you call to
me. So you put in three? Something

like that. Combining three recipes to
perfection, the right spices, sweet and

hot, mild and spicy. Soy sauce, light or dark,
a teaspoon sugar, you cut the garlic

They said half a clove of garlic, but
can you have too much? Add some
peppercorns. Wait, where did the mild

go? Toss together in the wok and add green
onions and fresh spinach. Dinner!

At dusk, before the
streetlights come on, we
watch fireflies
flicker in our tangled green
yard.

Dear Kris,

I just wanted to let you know that you
got it all wrong. There
was no 4th child, no twin. Those
were the people down the
street. Nothing to
do with our
family. Hope this
helps

Love, Grampa Jones

I’m sitting on the pavement knitting
sunflowers,  eating cheddar
cheese. Remembering better days. Times
with space enough and
more.

Hardback books lined my walls and
I hung my satchel on a
nail before  sitting in
front of the
fireplace drinking wine, and
tossing
my  empty glass onto the hearth.

Days it was cold enough to
need a fire. Seasoned oak was piled
high in the wood room.

Not like now. Not like
now.