i waved at the men in the big rigs
while you sat beside me,
holding my hand.
when i was eight
boys had coodies,
Barbie was cool,
and you were my hero.
Christmas dinner at your house,
you took the red bow off my gift
and stuck it to your bare,
seventy-three year old head,
dancing and singing
with spring on your instep.
when i was ten
and you were seventy-five,
i played sick,
stayed home from school
for the day.
we ate peppermints on the couch,
drinking 7-up and watching Guiding Light
with grandma.
by age twelve
i decided that seeing sweaty semi drivers
roll on the highway really wasn't for me,
but the porch swing looked empty without us,
so your seventy-seven year old arthritic hands
carried the peppermint jar outside and we watched
and waved as trucks went by.
fourteen years old,
i learned that boys no longer had coodies
'cause i'd kissed a few
and i was still ok.
your eyes smiled,
seventy-nine years of life listening patiently
as i prattled on about the cute neighbor boy--
he was older... had a Thunderbird... with a killer body...
sixteen and eighty-one,
i used the money you gave me for straight A's
to fill the gas tank of my Ford.
the neighbor boy graduated, moved away.
i think he really did have coodies;
he slept around a lot.
now i am eighteen,
you are eighty-three,
and the spark has vanished from your eyes.
you are alive, no longer living,
but i know you love me still.
i envy my brother;
at twenty-six,
he has had eight more years with you.
the vision of your younger days is preserved,
a slideshow in my mind:
i still see you, vibrant, invincible,
with hands full of bows and peppermints.
i know in your heart you see that little girl
who thought Barbie was cool
when boys had coodies.
you will always be my hero.
now you lie on your side in a twin-sized bed
by the window.
curtains pulled open,
blankets drawn,
two scrawny arms peering out from under covers:
you wave at the men in the big rigs
while i sit beside you,
holding your hand.
