Grandmother’s Porch Glider

 

By: Marilyn McVicker

 

It sits on my porch, this green

metal glider. Transported 

through time, over miles, 

my grandmother rests in Ivy Hill. 

Her glider rests here.

 

The first day

I avoided it,

a knot in my throat

as I glanced at it briefly

through the window.

 

The second day

I stepped onto the porch to take a look.

Years had peeled away layers

of paint. Metal beneath lay 

exposed.

 

The third day we set the old

 hair cushions on, parts of the original 

show through layers, remnants of old fabric 

sewn with her hands to cover 

the tatters of years.

 

Finally I have been able to sit,

and each day a few minutes more.

 

Memories waft up

with the dust of old cushions, 

musty house smell

that enshrouds

peeling memories.

 

I have been waiting 

all week for her to arrive, 

sit and rock, stroke  my arm, 

share sweet iced tea, conversation,

on the warm summer evening.

 

Each evening the damp mist settles in. 

I wait for the warmth

of her laughter, the flicker

of fireflies on the lawn, the shimmer

of Brahms through the doorway.

 

So smoothly

it glides. The seat fits perfectly,

the floor meets my legs as if it were made

for me, the arm rest better positioned

than ever as a child.

 

I rock and rock

into the perfect peace

of my grandmother’s porch glider,

the rhythm and smell 

of home.

 

Marilyn McVicker is a writer and musician.  She lives in a beautiful mountain cove near Bakersville, North Carolina.

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