Dorothy

Dorothy

I search the frail figure in the white bed
for a glimpse of Dorothy.
The woman I’ve known my whole life.
The one with the loving eyes and sly smile,
as though she holds a secret.

The one vital and strong and bossy,
Who insisted on cooking for me when I visited,
(She didn’t want anyone else messing around in her kitchen.)
And making sure my bed and bathroom were just right.
Even though she was 90 something.

Now, her fuzzy white hair forms a halo
around her thin face.
She asks “Who’s there?”
I have surprised her with this quick trip to Phoenix.
She doesn’t see well.
I am hoarse and she can’t recognize my voice.
But I tease her and say “You have to guess.”
In just a moment, her eyes fill up and she says
“Annie, girl, I thought I’d never see you again.”

“That’s why I’m here. I can’t let that happen.”
She pats her bed and I sit.
I notice the chalkboard on her wall.
It says Dorothy McGregor, 97 years old.
How did she get so old, this ageless woman?

When I was just 14, and I zoomed my little aluminum boat,
the one with the 25hp Johnson,
across the lake to her house.
I’d climb the steps to her patio
to find her and Mac.
Mac who shared the same twinkle in his eye
and half-smile.

I’d plop my skinny frame down in an aluminum chair,
the kind with with plastic webbing,
swing my skinny legs, and tell them all.
Everything I was doing, what I thought
What I felt.

They were NOT my parents and I could shock them.
If I wanted. And they would laugh.
Mac would tease me.
Dorothy would just smile
and get me a cold drink or a cookie.

Dorothy relives older times,
1925,
My mother. Marjorie, was the older cousin of the two.
Dorothy told me, as she had told me
time and time again,
How she sat on my mothers bed,
filled with admiration,
as she watched Marjorie get ready for a date.
Watched her pull on her heavy stockings
and knot them at the top,
Fix her hair and put color on her cheeks.
“I wanted to be just like her.”

Later she tells me,
“I didn’t want it to be like this at the end,”
I wanted to slip out quietly in the night.”

“What do you think it will be like?
she asks.
“I think it will be very good,”
I say slowly, emphasizing each word.
“I think Mac is busy getting ready for me.”
She says.
“I bet he is. He will be so happy to see you.”

In our last sweet hours together,
I whisper in her ear,
Her fuzzy hair tickles my lips.
”I love you. I want to be sure you know
how important you have been in my life.”
The glimmer lights up her eyes,
and the sly smile stretches across her lips,
As though she knows a secret.