My last living grandparent, Grandma C, on my mother's side, died early this morning. She hung on long and brave into her 96th year, sweet and cheerful even when she was confined to a bed these last few months.
My mom and her three brothers were devoted in caring for Grandma, determined to allow her to stay in her own home. They kept her active and gave help as she needed it, delighting in her cleverness, the humor that seemed to grow as she aged.
My mother's oldest brother was especially dedicated, spending months that added up to years in the spare bedroom, feeding her prunes and peaches, dragging her out to walk, ever her gruff, faithful companion. I wrote this poem about him in 2012.
The Oldest Son
He, the oldest child,
never knew for sure
his father's approval.
He left and spent
fifty years living hard,
he was tough, talked tough.
He returned - old and
gentler, but still swearing -
to his ninety-year-old mother.
It was years and years
after his father had gone,
after his own near-death.
He took the Greyhound
down from Ohio. Stayed,
coming back, again and again.
Once he swore he'd stay
"until Mother goes or I go."
(He always calls her 'Mother'.)
Like, "Mother, get your damn
coat on! It's time to go!", or
"Finish your applesauce, Mother!"
She, ever the proper young lady,
giggles, and ignores his language,
missing him each time he goes.
