On Visiting an Old Friend

Early, on Friday mornings,

we enter a frosted car,

wait while churned heat blasts

peepholes through the haze,

and then we navigate six miles

of autumn-plumed back roads.

An old woman waits for nothing

patiently in her recliner

bobbing for dreams

despite the TV thumping

its loudest voices

into her delicate frame.

How she flares up,

whoops with surprise,

at these recurring visits.

I peek around her shoulder,

and she hides the frantic flipping

through her mind's files

for a glimmer of our names.

I fetch her blanket first,

for she is always cold.

In my absence,

she remembers our names.

I return, and our faces focus

as I lean in to kiss her cheek,

layer the blanket on her lap,

and deliver "Lyla, the dog."

I say we're here just for her,

and she blushes, swats the air

for modesty's sake, then asks,

“Who, me?”

I answer, “Yes, Grammy, you.”

Copyright (c) 2011, 2013, 2015, 2020 by Lindsey Vernon

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