My grandmother visited earlier today, her
purple gloves matching the purple in
her scarf, my mother and I told her of
yesterday and the way in which her
granddaughter made us both change
our clothes to accommodate her, and
she laughed, and she
laughed.
17 minutes.
She stopped by to look at a lamp my
mother had bought, a
large, white lamp whose body looked
like a weaved basket—she said
this, and we laughed, and we laughed
although we had all already thought it.
She liked it.
I sat at the chair across from her, and
my mother told her about the woman at
the bank who took off the same days
as she did to give their coworker hell,
she gasped when it was due,
outraged at perhaps old memories
of her bank career, igniting and
ending the same conversation.
14 minutes.
My grandfather stood on the porch.
He looked out to the park.
Nothing on his mind other than the birds.
Where were they?
It was still light out.
Light enough to have an hour left at the park and my grandfather knew, just knew they were coming.
She rolled her eyes, the way she does
when she’s fed up with her grandson’s
screaming or tries to get Sprinkles to
eat her food when her daughter is off in
Florida, it was Thanksgiving then, and
she left her house for an hour that
night just to walk the dog—she had
to, she had to.
9 minutes.
He never went for walks anymore.
His feet in his slippers.
His legs in Penn State sweatpants his
niece bought him.
He stood outside without a jacket on.
He knew it wouldn’t be long.
The other day, she told us, a reporter
came by to take a picture of her
husband watching the birds, he was
always out there at that time, there was a
hawk flying over the park too, and the
reporter went to capture it but saw her husband and asked him a few questions.
5 minutes.
In one fell swoop they rushed over the row of houses across the street.
He turned his head to get a better look.
He tilted it towards the sky.
Followed them.
His hands in his pockets.
One out, now, to count how many there were.
Three, five, eleven.
It was futile.
My grandfather looked at the reporter,
she said, and told him he couldn’t be in
a picture, I’ve got this beard, he says to
him, and she laughed, but he’s in the
paper, he answered the man’s questions and
everything, he really looks scruffy, let
me tell ya.
She rolled her eyes again.
With a sigh, and a click of the tongue.
2 minutes.
He watched the geese disappear over the houses.
Even waited a minute.
Held his gaze as though one may come back.
One may have forgotten something.
The hawk was resting upon the top of the tree just on the outskirts of the park.
Before turning to go inside, he saw it.
She placed her purse on her lap, she
had never taken off her coat, my
mother told her she would call her the
next day, and just before she left,
my mother asked if she was sure about the
lamp, her mother said she really liked it.
I really do.
