Ms. Harper

Her name was Ms. Harper.
She was my grandmother
but not by blood.
Still, she held that role in the crook of her arm
when I came to visit.

I was young.
Small enough to believe I’d always be young.
I recall wanting to say something big, something worthy
a line that might land like benediction on her shoulder.
But all I had was,
I’ll see you again.

And maybe that was enough.
A hope
even if it would not be true.

In her room:
a woman
hands curled inward,
weathered by Parkinson’s and silence.

In her room:
a shrine,
one photo worn smooth with remembrance
Mr. Harper, long gone from Normandy’s shore,
yet still a presence in the wallpaper, the stillness.

In her room:
a scent of time
old perfume, dust,
the hush that settles on things when they stop being touched.

In her room:
a boy.
Me.
With no language yet for loss,
no theology yet for time.

Outside,
a friend from first grade,
chasing a dog through someone else’s backyard
his voice high,
a sister’s laugh echoing behind.
My parents had thought the play
might soften the visit.
And it did.
Somewhat.
The friend, protector of games and children
and afternoons too long.

I don’t remember what we ate.
Or what car we drove.
Or if the sun was shining or if someone brought a pie.
Memory is strange. It chooses its own gospel.

But there is a photograph from this visit.
That holds what the heart couldn’t.
Ms. Harper, still
stillness being the mercy of the photograph.
No tremor.
Just a face looking up from a chair,
smiling toward me,
as if to say:
You were known.

And I never saw her again.
Which makes I’ll see you again
its own kind of prayer
not for the future,
but for the past.