Ruby

A man who will take a woman’s joy, said my Grandmother,

then stopped and shook her head.

She went inside, porch door closing behind her,

her iced tea glass leaving wet marks on the newspaper

their concentric rings spread across the obituary

of an old woman laid to rest just yesterday.

Inside Grandma is rooting around in a junk drawer

humming “Gladly the Cross I’d Bear” under her breath.

These days she leaves a trail of things behind her,

she who once was the knife edge of order and cleanliness.

There in the pile is a photo of a girl over sixty years ago

not more than a teen, peeking from behind a tree, face full of laughter.

I touch the picture, wanting to know this new best friend.

I am wondering who she is when I hear grandma fall.

I rush to her, forgetting that face of joy, and lifting Grandma up

hear her say: RUBY!

She is laughing to herself, young again, and gay.

He wasn’t a Cross-Eyed Bear! she is saying to no one here.

Lifted, she tries a slow pirouette in her orthopedic shoes,

face full of that picture’s zest, then slowly today closes in.

Eyes clouding over, she grasps my arms with those delicate hands,

her fingernails like claws, saying again “a man who will take a woman’s joy”

and little else before her afternoon nap.