At Grandfather's

At Grandfather's

Poppie, we called him,
Sitting in his large
red armchair, white hair
With a sheen like the carved
Hair of presidents on old coins,
Would look down at me, 5,
In his lap, quip
"Only woman left
Who still plays with my hair."

For these visits
My mother carefully parted
My long, brassy hair,
Brushed it until it gleamed,
Matched my grandmothers décor,
Her little gilded lamps,
The flaring, warmth-giving
Fire in the fireplace, even
The soft couch she shared
With my mother, hip to hip.

At twenty, I sit between them,
Eying Poppie.
His hair has yellowed
Like paper under too much light.
Mine is brutally short and mousy.

One Sunday
We argue heatedly over Randy,
Poppie's son, who forbids
Me to send a card of congratulation
To his ex-wife, soon to remarry,
Though we are close.
She will inherit three young
Girls, what she wanted
From Randy, what she left to find.

My mother takes my side
To Poppie, Mimi chews
her nails, watches cinders
From the fire spill
Onto her white carpet. In his chair,
Poppie shakes his head
And says dismissively,
"Women--you're too emotional."