by Alexander Hurla
Many years from now,
when I’m old and gray and my joints hurt,
I’ll climb into the dark attic
and pull out a box from the corner—
a moldy and moth-ridden one with faded words on the side.
I’ll open it—almost reverently, almost scared—
and wipe the dust from the picture
of the crisp Marine uniform that used to fit
and the white dress she wore with her smile.
There’ll be faded pictures from California beaches
and from Kansas ranches
and from winding trails in Spain.
And there’ll be simple pictures of a life I thought would last.
Then my grandson will follow me up
as wily children are wont to do.
He’ll tiptoe closer with quiet steps
and peer over my bent shoulders with his little eyes.
I’ll know he’s there, but I won’t move—
not until he asks, “Who’s that lady? That’s not Grandma.”
And I’ll smile—or maybe I won’t—
when I pull him in tight so he can’t see my face
and kiss the top of his head.
And when I’m hugging him
and thanking God for him,
I’ll try my best not to choke on the words
when I whisper, “No. She was just an old friend.”
But that is many years from now.