At one end of the snug beige living
room,
dim lit and smelling slightly of
cigarette smoke and
milk and roses and old spice
and childhood
your cracked brown leather La-Z-Boy
chair
still waits, calling for me to come sit
one more time
in the spot so well worn that it might
just be
warm, even after all these years.
It is home to me,
this room where I escaped
soft places to rest and
strong arms to hide behind.
I go there often these days, eyes
closed,
leading me back to then, to all those
million tiny moments
when we were all together,
so much less fragile,
so young.
All those nights you sat, a grandchild
on each knee,
reclined in your slacks, bushy
eyebrows, smirking joyfully
tickling us with your mustache while
Johnny Carson chatted on in the
background
or Get Smart, or Dragnet,
or anything, really, it never actually
mattered
because the time was ours...
is still ours, and for all few sweet
moments when I laid next to you
in those final, quiet days
body weak but spirit strong
I wonder if your mind went to the
places mine did,
getting ready for bed, Grandma dressing
me in one of your
white undershirts (which my small body
swam in)
brother and I climbing in between the
blankets,
still petting my hair as I fall
asleep.
