Birches Dance

I left the house after my grandma aged too much

In one sentence--

stumbling over her thoughts

and letting her fear and anger at growing old

nip and scold me

like I was still a little girl chewing her hair.

Not the woman cooking her real food this week

syphoning every story I can get

and stirring hope and health into every meal.

Hope that this isn't our last visit.

I left the house

to walk where she has walked

with Syria

with Fia

then Kashi and Amber

through the woods

near her house.

I trudged through the snow--

hurt and frustrated

at my inability to overlook her senescence

and see the woman I always have--

that crooked figure with dog in toe

that blond, scandinavian babe

on the beaches of Tahiti

the runaway model in Paris walking a pink poodle.

The fearless army nurse

that world traveller at the side of my mysterious grandfather--

her at the helm, him trimming the sheet.

Hurt that she does not see how much I admire her.

But soon I lose both--

the hurt and the confusion--

myself too.

For the birches ask me to dance

and I cannot refuse.

We twirl and curl like their bark.

And in our intimacy they peel away their skins

just enough for me to see

their delicate, pink insides.

They admit--

they miss dancing with Mormor.

for she has not visited them for two winters and

That our dance together--

our closeness

has made them very happy

and that she and I are very much

the same.

I walked back to the house

(understanding why she is angry)

promising to dance again tomorrow.