A Grandfather's Lament

No one is happy here.

Over in the corner

the four year old

kicks a plastic car

hard against the wood

standing in reserve

for the fire.

Above canned laughter

and the inane conversations

of an unattended television

I trace the source

of his aggression

to his father

and two uncles

verbally abusing one another

over beer in the kitchen.

His mother is at work; his

grandmother moves quickly

and obsequiously between

the stove and refrigerator

and sink, providing snacks

for the men, cleaning

their dishes, preparing

a meal for herself,

seldom speaking,

never disagreeing for fear

of a flare of temper;

she has a deep fear

of change or sudden

tragedy, of any disruption

in the precipitous routine.

The kid misses the car

and kicks a log

and cries out.

Grandma hurries to him

in short steps,

dish towel flailing,

and scolds him for noise

hardly heard over

the television and the

grunting and laughing

and table slapping,

chair scraping games.

I sit in the center of it all,

a lamp, ready to illuminate.

In an attempt to

turn me on one of the

younger men passes

with some jocular remark,

but his glassy eyes

only remain on me for a

second, and when I show no

sign of response, he quickly

returns to his noisy banter

with the others. I close

my eyes and say a silent

prayer, wishing I were

as deaf as my years might

dictate, then remember

the adage, “be careful

what you wish for,”

and worry that malcontent

could carry me further

from the place of peace I crave,

into confusion and disarray,

into grandmother’s terror, a hell

of chaos and miscommunication,

the proverbial city of Babel.

Words are my only refuge,

creating order from the scrabble.

I grab thoughts from the air

and carefully arrange them

on the page. I

capture the confusion

and spread it meaningfully

before me. But occasionally,

when the dogs start barking

or the kid turns up his volume,

or the men begin to punch

and slap and pretend fight,

knocking over chairs,

frightening grandmother

who grabs at loose plates

and falling glasses; then

sometimes I cannot find

a word that defines them all.

I’ll almost have it,

so close that I’ll have written

the first letter or two

and then the noise grabs

the thought and throws it

playfully across the room.

If I were grandmother, I

would chase it from wall to wall

in tortured frustration, cringing

at the demon laughter, but

I am not her. I stare

at the letters, confident

thought will ricochet,

and even if it escapes

through some portal carelessly

ajar, the letters are still

there before me and

there are other choices,

other words that will do

just as well, new thoughts

that will take me

on concurrent pathways.

Outside a bonfire smolders

and my pen stills. My caring

child, back from work,

will remove it

from my hand and fold

my notebook closed

and lead me staring, unseeing,

to my bed where I will

discover the words

in the early morning

before anyone else is awake.

I will take the thoughts

and turn them over and over

preciously, polishing them

in the stillness

of God’s gracious dawn.