Her sweet, sagging figure stood before me,
Her soft, raisin hands waited for mine,
"Bring the little birdies into the nest."
My child hands took flight.
Soared back and forth, up and down
Landing in the cotton nest
Where they were dried
In time for supper.
Sharp cheddar smothering soft shells
Was what Nannie always made.
Accompanied by red liquid sugar
And lettuce made mushy by Ranch. The Love Boat and Fantasy Island
Were preceded by hands of Old Maid and Rummy.
Finally, time for bed
She tucked her little bird in tight
As I blessed everyone and anyone.
Kissing me, Her fragile hands
Turned out my light.
Twelve years later
Her tiny frame lies still In an adult crib.
Mom and I prop her up with pillows
In the dull, anesthetized room.
Now, Nannie's hands are being dried
In the birdie's nest
By the strong cracked hands of a nurse.
Other elderly people
Waiting for their suppers
Line the dim halls in matching wheelchairs.
Supper consists of
Hot tea and chicken broth
Which is barely consume and
Her eager smile
No longer gleams
In her fawn brown eyes.
Kissing her forehead, my adolescent hands
Stroke her soft, aged face
Remembering the woman
I used to know as
Nannie.
