girl with ice skates, image by Lorri Lang, on Pixabay
On the Porch of Magnolia Manor, Decorated for Fall
She would tell me wistfully about carrying
her skates to the lake in Ohio, while I watched
the soft joy of luminary candle bags along the sidewalk
out to the hedge of azaleas, holding away the asphalt
of the island's main roadway, or stared at the black sky
bright with stars, their silent light close, impassive.
I had to make time for this because she loved the porch
at night and could only stay out, or pass through
the buzz-lock door, with a family member after 9:00.
I knew, a hundred times over, she was a skating
champion, at that lake where she met my grandfather,
like, she was later a Friday night bowling champion
for Brunswick Manufacturing. Now,
she could only talk and slowly walk, refusing a walker,
with a cane back to the antiseptic room with a few
knickknacks and family photos. Close to bedtime
when residents had to make their way to their rooms,
she put her hands on the arms of the rocker, but
wouldn't rise, just rock gently and say, "I feel, you know,
'blue'." Yeah, I knew. No polished explanation, but
close enough for horseshoes. And I was there
because I knew.
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Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia on a property lush with vegetation. His work
has appeared in San Pedro River Review, Red Eft Review, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Williwaw Journal, Your Daily Poem, Quaci Press Magazine, Gyroscope Review, and
other places.
August 2021 issue