When I was ten years old I had my very own
old woman.
I was her only student
that year for the fourth grade
Sunday School class.
She learned about my favorite cartoons
and what school subjects I hated.
I told her about the boy on my soccer
team that I liked.
She bought me puzzles and books
and sent me cards for every holiday.
Trying to remember her face
I can only see her shape walking
with a slight limp and her purse strap
wrapped around her hand, the bag
nearly dragging on the ground.
She always told me I was a lot
like her own granddaughter
whom she almost never saw.
But she wasn’t like a grandmother.
She wouldn’t scold me for misbehaving
She would only be proud.
I met her granddaughter when she
came to town for the funeral.
After church, I watched
her pale, round fists dig beneath thick
glasses as she was pampered for her
loss. An emptiness swelled in my stomach
and my body felt compelled to collapse
into that space.
I saw no resemblance between
us. I had no right to cry.