Flagstone

Swinging,
the rusty wintered chains creaked
and cracked.
I sat beside you,
my head resting on your arm,
immersed in your freshly laundered,
selfsewn flower print cotton
as moths circled the naked bulb.
The night was just a little cooler than the day,
a blue humid pall,
and you sang me Carter Family
in your Virginia Slim alto
between coughs,
and puffs from your bottomless
120's.

My feet didn't touch the flagstone then,
as they have since for years as a man,
caring for you in your diseased,
frail tempest.
When “they” diagnosed you
I wasn't at all surprised,
seeing as you'd been forgetting things
like curlers, lipstick,
and light bills
for years.
Every season I'd pick up your cigarettes,
Crunch N' Munch, Vicks Rub
and a little more of the slack,
paying this,
fixing that,
and praying
that you'd remember to remember my wife's name,
or at least
the reality of our
marriage.

We hung that dry erase board
on the broom closet door,
but smudges,
honey do lists for your dead husband,
and ironclad pride
kept you from functioning
in the now.

In the now.

The now is where I am,
not 1943, not 1963,
not when smokes cost a nickel
and giants walked the earth.

Now.

But you'll never be where I am again,
at least not in spirit.
Your mind has fled,
but your body remains.
So I'll do a bit of remembrance for you.
I'll let you know every day
that I'm here,
and I'll say I love you even when you curse me,
call me Bob or Dennard,
try to cut yourself
with that fucking Exacto knife I keep hiding.
I'll grit my teeth when you call my children bastards,
or spit at them through your dentures.
When you put sugar in my gas tank,
after you've dialed 911 on the phantom hobo's in the forest,
I'll simply tell Officer Handy that you're sick again
and watch him drive away,
blue lights blacked,
and sirens silenced.

And I won't tell you what I'm wishing,
every living day while I'm selling myself to a time clock.
I won't tell you
that I hope you're dead as a stone when I get
home.
I won't tell you
that I envision myself dancing a merry jig on your grave.
I also won't tell you
that these fantasies are my daily meat,
when I'm too tired of trying,
when I alternate between guilt
and rage.

So GRANDMOTHER,
as the walking dead do,
I'll pay this,
and fix that,
and I'll think of you
singing Wildwood Flower,
in a porch swing sanely,
softly
sweet as tea in the summer,
when my feet wouldn't reach the floor.