Purple

My jeans I’d wear, twirling in the air
the cousins, loved those kids; I’d
see them hardly ever, flying, laughing,
rising. Mother couldn’t understand
the wriggling out of the purple dress;
nails were temporarily permanent,
bought in Poughkeepsie, when it
was safe for teenagers to shop by
themselves.
                     In thirty plus years,
my daughter-in-law would be approached
and encroached upon; she’d chase off
the ho-supplier. Not far, not far at all
from my childhood neighborhood.

My friend and I look at jewelry, but buy
an assortment of polishes for our eyes
and nails. Purple would fill the nailbed,
on the unwrinkled, no need to iron hands.

Could I explain,
                         time, cannot be bottled;
tears jeans, cracks nails, hammers.

Could I imagine a son, a daughter-in-law;
not a thought
                      unless we played the game
                 of
crisscross.

We’d write down places, numbers, names of boys,
 - we’d see where we’d live, how many kids, and
find out who we’d marry,
                                       no one
expected me
                      to fly
                               militar-ily
                                               find that guy
who followed me
                            to places
                                             in disguise.

In purple skies
                        at cross purposes
                                                      we intersect

I now know - where, how many, his name, and more.

Simpler days, would I return the polish and the friend?
I remember the celebration, followed by the divorce.
I remember his daughter, at five - she’d survive
his death. I’d not forfeit the purple polish - in the end,
before my marriage, three kids, in-laws, grands;
I’d not sail away from Sandy - I’d play a game;
it’s been a long, long, long time since we sat
in our grandparent’s house, in her Dad’s absence,
and behaved as cousins, fourteen years apart.

memorynarrative

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