Mementoes

The smiling, sweet lady

with wrinkles and eyeglasses

and a tidy, whitish-blond perm.

The one I called Mom Mom.

The house on a tree-lined street

just outside of the city.

And later, the house within walking distance

from where my family lived.

The way she bubbled right along with me

when I was a beautiful blond baby boy.

The delight she took in me and three other

grandchildren.

The white Bachman’s pretzel bucket

where she would keep her pizzelles.

The Philco television in the yellow kitchen.

The dining room with the elegant table and

Grandma and Grandpa salt shakers.

The living room and the furniture really

much too beautiful to sit upon.

The upstairs den where many a night was spent

watching PBS.

The golden gavel paperweight on the desk,

My bedroom with the blue carpet and the white

bedframe.

The way she would smile whenever I saw her, and

never stopped sounding like she smiled.

Wendy’s on a Wednesday night, and the way she would ask

me if I were ready for my “cheeburger.”

Perhaps Dairy Queen, or even Friendly’s,  after that.

The skin that felt like the smoothest, softest paper.

The eyes that twinkled like diamonds in the night.

The nights I cried on her shoulder

when I got older, and perhaps older

still.

The shelter she gave me from the storms.

The fact that she was my ace in the hole.

The 1985 white Dodge Diplomat with the blue roof,

The 1989 Chrysler New Yorker, sky blue through and through,

and the 1993 Chrysler Concorde.

How she drove every Friday to get her perm done,

until her feet could no longer reach the pedals.

The pleasure I took in refueling her tank when the needle

hit the halfway mark.

The love she gave our Pop Pop, every day of their lives,

and the way her heart ached for him when he was gone.

The house she lived in,

where my mother now lives,

and where my niece, her great-grandchild,

calls her Mom Mom now, too.

The way she adored us, each and every one.

The way she would always want us to be happy and joyful.

The way Edythe was.