VIII. Old Mrs. Stanley
She sits on her porch and knits Bending at the window-sill With old, old waxed fingers Smiling away her day (my old neighbor) Mrs. Stanley).
Now comes forenoon, she stops the knit Switches to another window (still on that little porch though) Looking down now, down the street (I’m but fifteen)) she doesn’t see me)) ‘Doesn’t she have anything else to do?’
I say… Through the drapes I can see her face,
She seems homeless (she’s ’93)
in that big house.
#1518 I remember her husband, he died two years after we moved to Cayuga Street, in 1958; I remember how he loved that Rambler, he bought it in 1959, and it sat there after he died for ten years, until her son took it. In 1968 I’d leave for San Francisco, in-between, I’d travel some, in 1966 and 1967, I traveled to Seattle and Omaha, Nebraska, but in ’68, I’d not really return for 12-years; around the world I’d go.
IX. Mother Saw Death
(7/1/2003)) 10:55 PM))
Perhaps death is a gift from God, my mother wished it, when I came to the hospital to visit her; she was tired of living she said, knowing after her last operation life would not be the same.
I remember quite well, she was afraid to turn on the stove, lest she forget to turn it off I suppose, especially if I was gone (not sure what happened, or went wrong, but perhaps something, I’ll never know).
She even dreamt of going back home, while in the hospital we lived together you know, her downstairs, me, upstairs, and when she learned she never would, she didn’t feel any longer she belonged here on earth, she had to go she knew, and she left, just like that.
#1520
