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Poem

Only three of us now who knew
both sets of our grandparents.
The three of us, 96, 94 and 88,
how much time have we left?
There are sepia photos from the
old, first Brownie cameras, a few
portraits of some from a bit later,
all still, silent, as they were not in life.

Being the oldest, I recall two great-
grandmothers, albeit vaguely,
one only in a darkened bedroom,
the other short, chubby, with the
horn she put to her ear to listen.
My mother’s father, Grandpa Jones,
studied his Bible lessons every day, but
he died when Dan and I were little.

Who but we three now remember the
stern but kindly mother of my dad?
Grandma Pope had endless patience
teaching my small hands to make jam,
can tomatoes, make pie crust and bread.
She had an infectious laugh which sent
tears rolling down her cheeks.
She let me go alone to 
the bakery to buy penny rolls.

Grandpa Pope first showed me a keyboard
and named the keys. An accomplished
pianist and organist, who had worked
for Chickering Pianos, he didn’t play
often any more, as he had toughened his hands
in the factory where he worked during
the Depression, but when he played
everyone was completely entranced.

My mother’s mother, Grandma Jones,
was Boston proper, a wonderful seamstress
and seemingly stern, but very loving.
I often would crawl into her bed at night.
When I had mumps she made me hot chocolate.
She would be sure I had hat and gloves
and take me to lunch at Jordan Marsh.
We did endless puzzles in her sitting room.

So much more to these people than
ever can be seen in a photograph.
Even this poem only scratches the surface.
The love, quirks, personalities are missing.
I suppose, some day, my descendants
will look at pictures of Doug and me
and wonder what kind of people WE were
and what WE really were like.

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