In October, my grandmother
is taking a bus trip to Branson, Missouri with a few other women from her small
town. Over a dinner of braised beef I shared with her the other night, she told
me of the scheduled events that she was looking forward to, which included the
hours-long trip with the other women.
"A bunch of widows
talkin' about the good ole days - that's all it'll amount to," she said,
wiping her glasses. "But you know what? I kind of enjoy that."
Since then, the idea for
this poem has been on my mind, so I decided to give it some legs this
afternoon. I imagine it will go something like this.
The Trip
Along Route 24 in Kansas.
A cool October morning.
Light the color of a
peacock’s plumes
skips off Perry Lake
and into the windows of a
silver vacation bus
eastbound for Branson.
Near the middle,
gray-headed and gabby,
two widows.
The power poles he used
to climb
leap from sight on the
right,
and the cars he used to
drive
slide by on the left.
And now, bustling toward
the Missouri line,
they are, one puts it,
taking the trip he’d
always said they
couldn’t afford.
Couldn’t afford the time,
the money.
There had always been
trousers to iron
for the next day’s work,
too much to be done
at work and at home.
Even so, those days had
been good ones,
the other says, because
even with
the dishpans, vacuums,
laundry, and meals,
there also had been
always a man
to kiss goodbye each
morning,
and always time to
anticipate,
much like they do now,
a reunion with him
at the end of
the day
Yes, the first says.
Yes, those were fine
days.
And the creases
in the corners of her
eyes
are not the only reminders.
Sad... I like it, though.
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