The Outside Rear Steps
The iceman often came down the rear steps,
empty tongs slung over his shoulder,
while Mother, heavy with groceries,
and I pressed on the railing to let him pass.
Two flights to the top. Afraid if I got dizzy
or my shoes misbehaved, I could easily slip
between the boards and crash, a wingless
sparrow, onto the garbage cans in the alley.
When I made it to the landing, nothing
to see but a field of weeds and junked cars.
My two great-grandmothers, black dress
and shoes, gray buns neatly pinned,
hugged us in Yiddish that floated
beyond me. The kitchen smelled of cabbage
and unopened windows. While Mother
restocked shelves, I escaped to the only
other room to explore. Two beds,
white spreads, and on the carved dresser,
a glass tray with powder puffs, a brush,
hairpins, a few coins. Faded photos. A letter.
Why did they live in this musty apartment
when we had a big house and a maid?
At the checkered-cloth table, I dunked hard
cookies in cold milk, waited for Mother
to stop gabbing and fold next week’s list
into her purse. As each grandmother kissed
my forehead, I felt on my arm, the hungry grip
of her hand, her thin bones wrapped in
speckled skin. For a moment we were bound
by the only familiar we would ever know.
First published in Blue Lyra Review, 2013