Those Grey Layers, by Marilyn Braendeholm

Those Grey Layers
by Marilyn Braendeholm

The thing about long-term memory, it feels like it just happened. Yesterday. Like when I remember my grandmother who passed-on more than 30-years ago. I can see her now. Grandma sitting in a straight-back wooden spindle chair. She sits where the sun breaks through the window but she still feels icy. And it’s just Grandma now; Grandpa’s recently dead. He went out fishing on the 3rd Tuesday of January last year. He threaded a nightcrawler on his hook, dropped the line over the side of the boat, and then had a heart attack. Out there alone on the lake. He floated around for 3-days in a January mist before anyone questioned why a row boat was out there. He froze board-stiff in that rowboat. Someone said he was the coldest shade of grey they’d ever seen. Greyer than winter, the policeman said. Winter’s a widow-maker, Grandma claimed. She looks out the window, sips her Earl Grey tea, and asks for another lap blanket. Her voice is shallow as lapping water. She’s not long for the next world. Asleep or awake, sometimes we can’t tell which when she closes her eyes. Those soft eyelids that disregard the lines between day and night. Sometimes she pretends to be deaf. I suspect that she hears everything that she can’t see. But as I said, it all seems like yesterday. Plus and or minus those intervening years.

like old grey stone,
that blue-eyed cat on her lap,
alas, there she ends

Marilyn Braendeholm, aka ‘Misky, lives in England surrounded by flowers in the summer, jars of sourdough starter in the winter, and old pots and pans when she’s testing recipes in the kitchen. Her poetry is regularly published by the literary magazine, Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream.

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