Listening to Catherine
“Grammy, let’s fly away.”
We are sitting on the top
step of the second floor
staircase. Down the hall
is her magical kingdom
bedroom. She’s wearing
fairy wings over her street
clothes as usual, a sign of
a theatrical life to bloom
in later years. “I can’t. I
don’t have any wings” I said.
[She doesn’t want to hear it.]
“Hold my hand. We can fly
together.” And I do. We
fly down the hall soaring
into another realm hovering
far above the ordinary, held
aloft by the imagination
of the most innocent.
Her life in theater bloomed.
She flies with some Portland
troupe now. Maybe she’s Puck.
Shape-shifter. Always changing.
Maybe she’s Clarence visiting
George to earn her wings
the Night Before. A bell rings.
She’s not here. That I know.
Into a beautiful, magical world
she flew away as she should,
without me. A woman all her
own. The plan from the beginning.
And yet I keep my good ear
turned to my front gate. I listen.
It may open. She may light
upon my porch one day soon.
Until then, I toss peanuts to
Jack the Crow when he calls
from my garden. I take rest on
my front porch. I delight in the
hummingbirds darting about
the fuchsias gathering nectar
to nurture their young.
Author: Martha Ellen Johnson
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