the opera glasses slipped out of my hand
they are inlaid with pearl
they posess that certain mysterious
intermingling
the kind also found in my
grandmother's cookbooks
the ones no one else wanted
the hats gloves shoes that fit
no one
(but me)
i will fix these--
for that is ever my task
a solemn desire for all to be well
whole, content, beloved
warm
full stomach of noodles and mushroom stew
home from a terrible bike ride in the rain
pausing
shaking the rain out of his long hair
he inhales and smiles into my eyes
early in the morning i stop to wonder why
why to care at all
it would hurt less
be
"easier"
perhaps
the good ones
the sweet grandchildren of the world
know dearly
at what cost
we love
our grandmothers
for they loved and cared
and instructed us
in each their own quiet or
particular way
to do the same
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