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