My Nana was withered at the end.
A fragment of crêpe paper caught in the wind.
My mother, much the same at that age
had been the picture of strength in her youth.
I recall Nana wrapping me up in her rollie-pollie arms;
smothering me in talcum powder and kisses.
It was a shock the way Nana transformed after Grandpa died;
as if all of her being had already gone after him ahead of her.
Mom, even in her grief, even in her sickness, was strong.
Don’t get me wrong, Nana could be a tough cookie.
She had to be, she was married to my Grandfather.
But Nana had a weakness. A laceration of sorts.
Nana never got over the Dodgers leaving Brooklyn.
Mom on the other hand, like Grandpa, was a Yankee fan.
©️Mark W. Ó Brien
11May2023