Grandma lost her second husband,
the saint from a sudden heart attack,
not the scalawag, who walked out the door
when Mom was two.
The first one broke Grandma's heart leaving,
the second one broke her heart dying.
Grandma did not shed a tear,
but when the funeral was over,
when TAPS and the gun salute faded,
she jumped in the grave,
hugged and hugged the casket
until they dragged her away,
her face as hard
as the Brass around her.
Home they went,
no tears, Grandma a Sphinx
who sat in the house,
zombied through her days,
mechanically cleaned.
Frail as a bird,
Mom couldn’t flap a wing,
wheedled and pleaded
for Grandma to cry.
One day, the statue stood stark still.
Mom said she did not know
what moved her to strike.
But she slugged Grandma,
smacked her right in the jaw.
Her mother looked at her stunned,
scrunched up her face
and wailed for days.
Mom and Grandma,
the best shoulders
for each other
the rest of their lives.
Originally published in Spindrift Magazine