Journey Not Taken
(I hold three magic rocks in my hand
Rolling them over and over and over
Leaving this reality far, far behind
I dream Daddy's dream, over and over and over.)
My daddy talked about her.
He said she was a saint,
the little grandmama
I never knew.
She lived to eighty-seven
with never a complaint
that any of her dreams
had not come true.
She lived alone in tiny house,
on widow's meager pension,
through Grandpa,
veteran of the Civil War.
If not sufficient for her needs,
I never heard a mention.
She was, I'm told too proud
to ask for more.
Indiana to Dakota,
must have seemed a dreadful ways
in those years
a long, long trip by train.
She saw her son just two more times
in those hard scrabble days,
though I know how hard
he tried to go again.
She knew grandchildren by our pictures
and there were few of those.
I know she must have longed
to see us all.
Our daddy often told us,
"We'll see how the wheat crop grows.
If good crop we'll go see Grandma
in the fall."
But the good crops didn't happen
and she died in 'twenty-eight'.
My grandma is a picture
on the wall.
Long black dress and little prayer cap
so modestly sedate,
her only weather garment
was a shawl.
Grandma didn't have much money
but she lived a sinless life.
At least that's what my
dear old daddy said.
He wanted so to show her
his dear children and his wife,
but he never got enough
to get ahead.
When the good crops came
Our dear grandma was dead.
won 4th place
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2009
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