Grandmother

She sits like a canvas folding chair, brown legs crossed
small, light, temporary
across the room from where they used to sit together.

But with him no longer with her in breath
with her in warmth, with her in grandparenthood
she stands like an old umbrella, alone
folded, shrunken, resigned
leaning against the wall where he left her without her.

And in the moments when I see her live
in patience, in slivers of participatory existence, waiting
I, her granddaughter, love her and worry
about the quiet hour of my age.

She knows she will end an inward lady, waiting
to be called, watching
those in front of her, watching their arm chairs, couches
watching their lives emptying into old age.

Those behind in their turn, watch
watch her without her, anticipating
the devastation of her departure without them.