1954 – Beneath a Pull String
Grandmother – Your thumb curled back,
Lick it – Lick it…
Turn pages of your bible
while you sit on garments
pressing them.
Everything is home made –
material above a radiator
moves in the night. . .
back and forth, back and forth –
Your apron covers a navy
blue dress – you must be
going to church – but right
now you’re stirring homemade
cocoa –
stir it – stir – stir –
It’s morning – or afternoon –
Grandmother’s footsteps reach
her landing on the second
floor – her voice calls out
“Grand daughter, it’s time.”
Little legs bend as hands
clinging tightly to a railing on
a twisting staircase.
You sit there beneath a pull string
which hits your head each
time you and I have morning cocoa –
On your back a red sweater –
half buttoned, holes at the elbow,
the left side.
You twisted in your chair,
back and forth, I know you
wanted to be comfortable –
then you smiled.
You were never tall – although
that string, the one to pull for
light in your kitchen – kept
swinging back and forth.
That string, in the morning
You would connect a long
plug as it hit your head –
now I know it was
a cord to your toaster, and radio –
in afternoon or night – connected
listening to church songs.
Often I notice your ankle’s
were never thin – never did
ask you why –
You connected yet another
cord to your toaster, to the same
pull string for light in early morning –
Curled thumbs flipped toast
from side to side as you opened
up to investigate – to see if the
toast was done.
Strange how a cord so
insignificant today – would be a
memory connecting you to me –
tomorrow.
