I cleared out her old veneered dresser and vanity 
with its huge round mirror. Slips, girdles, garters, 
and seamed stockings rolled in plum-sized balls. 
A nightgown I’d given her still had the tags 
and tissue. She did that—saved things for “good,”
even a nightie, I guess. She kept a hoard of aprons— 
stained, sturdy cotton for every day, flounced organdy 
for serving guests — along with white gloves for church,
pocketbooks, and a drab felt hat with feather and veil. 

When I opened the vanity’s low middle drawer, 
it held a whisper of Chanel and hankies— 
thirty or more—ironed, folded in half and half 
again, cotton so fine it might dab away a tear 
but could never tend a good cry. Hankies 
with scalloped edges, embroidered pansies, 
set-in lace, and for Christmas, poinsettias 
and candy canes. Grandma always kept one 
tucked inside her sleeve. I never saw her use it, 
but she had one, just in case.
                        

I see you so seldom now, 
after the move, covid, 
different mates and politics.

We’re like Frost’s two paths, 
decided on luck, fate, 
promises we kept. 

How are you, my friend? 
Do we know each other now, 
or just times past, shared 
when we were young? 
Sit down. Have some tea 
and the cookies you taught me 
to make that afternoon in August.
                        

Seaweed calligraphy at the tide's edge.
A crab tracks through, smears the ink.  
I wait for the fog to lift. The gulls argue 
over someone's sandwich crust, get on 
with survival. I remember your words, 
the undertow.