Ma Jones

My grandmother wore black-leather

ankle-high lace-up shoes,

the uppers pricked with tiny holes, these

on a woman who in my memory

never walked, a solid body wedged

in a chair, wearing a cotton print dress

of some pale color, flat fronted,

legs in skin-colored stockings, her flesh

unseen beyond her face & hands.

Three or four unmarried children

also lived in the Charles Street house

on the Charles. My uncle Charlie must have thought

he lived his life in an echo chamber.

Aunt Thelma lived a mile across the river.

Aunt Lily got Ma up & dressed her,

took her to the toilet, bathed & undressed her

& put her to bed, & gave her shots

because Ma was diabetic. Lily called

my uncle Tommy to help with lifting.

I tried but couldn’t imagine these things.

Ma dropped tiny white saccharines

into cups of black coffee. Lily ran

the house no matter who lived there,

& Ma was Lil’s even though Ma was everyone’s —

Ma & Lil were that close. Lil would say,

Ma would like that, or Ma wouldn’t like that.

Tommy & Charlie might look unconvinced

but they didn’t go against her.

Ma wasn’t mean, & she wasn’t friendly,

her mouth a straight line, & if she smiled,

the smile looked phony. She might have liked

children once, but that was before me.

She had great-grandchildren older

than I was. She crocheted dresses for stiff,

small, plastic dolls that weren’t gifts

I appreciated. She would play Chinese checkers

& Parcheesi & beat me every time, easy.

Lily said Ma had false teeth. Her mouth

opened & closed & chewed. She liked to hear

the latest news about everyone in her family,

cousins I’d never seen or couldn’t remember.

Around the time I went to college she died.