Wheeled outside by Nurse to wait in the sun,
Tied across the chest and underarms, ordered
Restrained lest I lean too far and touch some
Vision of my drifting thoughts, old dog tricks;
My running days, my walking days, my days are over.
The boy ran hard from practice in late afternoon
Bursting both lungs to reach my chores before
Dusk mocked the promises made in happy faith:
How joyous flowed sweet juices then,
How kind reproach was poured like
Blessing on my sweat.
[Undated poem by Virginia McKinnon Mann.
Typing up my grandmother's writings, I have been surprised by the pain she felt for herself and perceived in others. During most of my life I held a childishly simple, cheerful view of Grandma... which was only natural because I was a child.
I suspect this poem was written about my grandfather, Virginia's husband. "My running days, my walking days, my days are over." There is tender tragedy in that line. I wonder if she missed the teenage version of him that she never met.]
Reading her poems, mostly for the first time, I see depths of feeling that I assumed were there, but were never visible. She didn't talk about her disappointments much, which was probably to keep from getting dragged down by them.
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