I think of my grandmother when the lilacs start to open up. She died five years ago, but she loved them, and one border of her yard was planted thick with them. In the spring, when windows could be pried open again, the scent filled the house. This time of year, she’s literally as close as breath.
Her characteristic countenance was a beautiful smile. Not till after my grandfather died did I begin to learn that it wasn’t a childlike or happy smile, but a more complex thing. I like Elizabeth Jennings’ poem “Rembrandt’s Late Self-Portraits” because it attempts to read the faces of age:
…Here
Is a humility at one with craft.
There is no arrogance. Pride is apart
From this self-scrutiny. You make light drift
The way you want. Your face is bruised and hurt
But there is still love left.
The rest is here. The poetry round-up is at Big A Little a today.
Here’s Grandma, holding my firstborn:
