Through a Child’s Eyes

Posted: July 8, 2015 in Uncategorized

MargoRoby Poem Tryouts: Dream the Day Away
“My brain was in free float mode and I wasn’t guiding it. When this happens, I find that (even more than night-time dreaming) my brain will often drift into dark areas, or problems I don’t want to deal with, at which point, I have to shut down the day-dreaming. My free dreaming tends to go way back in my past and drag things out that I have long left behind. Free float mode is also where I work on a poem.
Think about your own free float times. Where are you? Go there.

Grandma would sit down
her lap full of mending to be done
hand me the spool and needle
saying, you see better than me.
I’d pass the thread through the gap
and give it back with a smile.
Later, I’d screw up my face
squint my eyes and try to see
a world of blur and disappearing gaps.

I noticed my hand beside her hand
and studied the swollen veins
through onionskin flesh, shiny, fragile,
and gently pinched…
it kept its shape to my astonishment.
Later, I’d pinch and pinch my own
but always it smoothed out.
I pondered this difference
of hands young and old.

She was grunts and groans
and rocking back and forth
to rise from the couch.
She walked like a ship
lumbering in waves, heaving
forward inch by inch.
Strange words filled my youth-
rheumatism, lumbago, arthritis,
bursitis, varicose veins.

Now a great distance separates
that child and myself as I watch
my grandson scamper past and say,
hurry Grandma, try to catch me.
I give chase, such as it is,
mid giggles and taunts
of you can’t get me
and the years fall away
but the flesh remains the same.

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Comments
  1. margo roby says:

    I like the cycle. As I deal with my mother at one end and watch my adult children at the other, I wonder at the irony that in my mind I am much the same as when the flesh plumped back out.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I love the contrasts you build by distinct descriptions in this…it’s powerful in its examples. Beautiful, Debi.

    Like

  3. This is so poignant. I was speaking only yesterday with my own children about their nana and found myself still tearing up at her loss five years after her death as we recollected moments, some funny, some sad. My youngest – at eight – informed me this morning she had dreamt of her nana and was missing her. I’m still amazed she can remember singular events given what age she was when my mum died. I guess we must hold inside us snapshots that we carry for life.
    You portrayed these snapshots so well and took me back with a smile to my own memories of mums and grans.

    Like

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