Granny's Knees | Family | c. 2017
A poem about Granny in a series about family.
Granny’s knees and ankles Turn blue when she moves, Like a fading memory. Her tears fall on the pillowcase, glistening in the TV’s light, Our window into the outside world. I inch closer and inhale: Her kindness fills my lungs And I close my eyes. Soon, she and I sleep, Dreaming of a world Without the piles of paper And plastic that covers grandfather’s mistakes.
A photo of Granny, Mrs. Vivian H. Bennerson. Taken at my kindergarten graduation in the summer of 1999.
Thoughts on “Granny’s Knees”.
Oftentimes when I write my poems, I forget to date them—mostly because I don’t want them to see the light of day. For many years, poetry felt akin to journaling: a spiritual practice to meditate on what I’m feeling. Dating them felt like putting a stamp on the emotion, making it permanent and deliverable.
With this in mind, understand that while I don’t remember when I write, I rarely forget why I wrote a piece. In the case of “Granny’s Knees”, I’d recently had a conversation with an older woman about my paternal grandparents. I remember spending an insane amount of time explaining the particulars of their marriage and how different Granny’s life would’ve been if she’d been born at another time. The woman pursed her lips, rolled her eyes, and chastised me for being calloused to Granny’s successes. “She was a poet, right?” she’d said, turning back to her computer. “Why are you worried about the money she could’ve made instead of cherishing the gifts she’d given you?”
I was annoyed at this comment. At barely 23 years old, I’d become keenly aware of the limitations of life and it angered me beyond reason. I’d been angry at the injustices that the women in my family experienced: ignored domestic laborers, paid pennies at their jobs, experienced horrendous medical ailments, and—all the while—being left to clean up the mess their spouses left once God called them home. How could this person not see how much easier things would’ve been otherwise?
But, she had been right about one thing: Granny made sure I inherited her gifts. Granny was a housewife for most of her life, but published poetry and made crafts after my Granddaddy, James, died a year before I was born. I’m the youngest of her six grandchildren and, if her writings tell me anything, she loved us deeply as she’d experienced six miscarriages and stillborn children before my father was born. I spent my afternoons at her side. She taught me how to write, to draw, to read, and—most importantly—how to pray.
If I close my eyes, I can feel the curve of her arms as we slept together. She died in 2002. I was in third grade. I may not have had all the time in the world with her, but I did understand her. I remember her mood swings, her crying, her anger. And, yes, sometimes, I’m angry for her.
SABLE will be writing more about family.
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