Granny Speck

Granny Speck

I remember Granny Speck
Above the neighborhood store
Alone in her wheelchair,
Face pasted to the window
A distorted, grotesque mask
Hungry for ordinary sounds
To penetrate the silence
Of frigid Montana winter.
I remember the sad eyes
Smiling as we trudged
Up the stairs, removed snow boots
And hugged the frail figure
Her raspy voice smelling
Of Jim Beam and tobacco,
Yellow-stained fingers clutching
Our small hands with a death grip
Grateful to be visible once
Again, even for a short time.
I remember the small room’s
Musty smells, drab colors and
Granny’s checkered dress, the
Same one she always had on.
Most of all I remember
Her easy laugh, the cussing
And railing against everything,
Poverty, politics, wind,
Neighbors, the dead, the dying.
I remember the day she died.
Alone, broken, crippled. Mida,
Her daughter found two uncashed
Welfare checks and $500,000 in
Cold cash under the mattress.
Granny always said that she
Never trusted those damn banks!