“Oh, it’s Grandpa.
We found out yesterday
he can play the harmonica.”
Mabel hums the tune
and goes back in the house.
The two
together
sound beautiful.
She fed him breakfast
like it was no big deal,
and it took half as long as when
Mom or Dad do it.
“Race ya!” she called,
and zoomed through Grandpa’s room
tidying up everything
before I could get my own done.
Of course, mine was much messier than his
at the start.
Now she’s ironing his shirts,
pressing perfect creases down the arms.
I brush out Mija, who stretches and purrs.
“It can get kind of boring
around here sometimes.”
“How ’bout a game?” The iron steams up
around Mabel’s arm.
“You want to play a game?”
“No. How ’bout a game for you and
your granddaddy?”
“Like what?”
“How ’bout checkers?”
“I think we have a set somewhere.
You want to play checkers, Grandpa?”
He grunts.
“Okay.”
Who ever would have thought
of that?
Mabel sets down the phone.
“That wasn’t your mother
checking on us again.
It was Bruce. He asked me to tell the family
Mr. Lawrence can go ahead
and keep that harmonica.”
“That’s nice. Did you hear that, Grandpa?”
He’s smiling.
He heard all right.
We face off
at the coffee table.
“Are you sure he can do this, Mabel?”
“Give him a chance,” she says.
The pieces shake in Grandpa’s hand,
and sometimes he bumps the board.
But he can play.
He wins the first game.
I win the second.
Grandpa bangs his armrest,
but he’s grinning.
I scoop up all the black and red circles
and dump them in the box.
“Good game.”
Mabel comes into the living room.
“Mr. Lawrence, would you like a cup of coffee?”
He grunts yes.
“I’m going out to garden.” I stand.
“Alrighty, then.”
Mabel pulls Grandpa back
and whisks him to the kitchen.
She is super strong.
But so big. What’s that like?
To have so much more of you
all around your bones.
To shake and jiggle
when you move.
I felt how soft it is
when she hugged me.
Soft and round.
I poke my hip bone
pushing out against my jeans.
It’s a hard, sharp edge.
I suck my stomach in
till it caves backward.
I can’t imagine
what it’s like
to be fat.
The pansies are getting leggy,
spreading out real far.
I pinch off the wilted flowers.
Each plant looks stronger
without the dead stuff hanging on.
Mabel’s hums slip out the window to me.
Grandpa joins her with his harmonica.
What is that song?
I pull a ladybug off my sleeve
and set it on a rose leaf.
“A mighty fortress is our God,” Mabel
sings loudly.
Oh, yeah. That’s a little familiar.
Did they sing it at the prayer meeting?
I stand up. Her deep alto voice
vibrates into my muscles.
Such a powerful song.
I bring my arms up to fifth position
then down again.
Relevé
and take a deep bow
on the last note.
Perfect.
Mabel tosses the salad.
“Nothing like fresh basil leaves
in a salad. Mmhm. That is some garden
you have, Mr. Lawrence.”
Grandpa grins.
I pull out a chair and sit down.
Mija circles Mabel’s wide ankles.
“And you sure do have
a beautiful kitty,” she adds.
Grandpa waves at the cat.
“You have a beautiful voice, Mabel,” I say.
“Well, thank you.”
“Did you ever sing professionally?”
“Oh, for a bit.”
She adds some dressing to the lettuce
“I did sing for a time on stage,
but I didn’t enjoy it.”
“Why not?”
“Why not. Well.” She chomps
a cherry tomato. “I found
when I sang professionally,
it wasn’t as fun for me. The nerves,
the practices, the pressure.”
“Yeah. I know what you’re saying.”
“Before I knew it,
all the beauty and fun of singing
were gone.”
She tosses the salad.
“I know some people can go out
and sing
and the performing fills them up.
That was never me.”
“Huh.”
“Yep. So I stopped
and sang again for myself
or sometimes for the church.
All my joy for song came back.”
“Because you were doing it for you?”
“Exactly.”
I look at Grandpa.
He’s beaming.
I wander downtown.
It’s nice to be able to go
alone.
Having Mabel to be with Grandpa
is going to be great.
I’ll read in the park,
then get a cup of tea.
Everything is so normal,
even when our lives have totally changed.
I walk down the busy sidewalk,
right by the conservatory.
I’m not afraid of it.
“Excuse me,” says a woman pushing a double
stroller.
I lean back against the wall
so she can get by.
My fingers brush the smooth brick.
“And one and two,” Madame’s voice
sifts down from the floor room windows.
My fingernails rake the rough mortar.
“And reach. Hold it. Hold it. Release.”
I pull away from the building
and flow with the crowd
down the sidewalk.
On the other side of the street,
Tommy’s talking to Elton outside the bookstore.
It’s great to see Elton!
Tommy looks pretty cute in street clothes too.
I wonder if he acts any more decent?
Elton sees me and waves.
I wave back.
He gestures for me to come over.
But the crosswalk is way down at the end
of the block,
and traffic is thick.
Now Tommy gives me a little wave too.
I give a good-bye, see-you-around shrug.
Hopefully they buy it.
They don’t need to waste their time
talking to me.
I’m sure they are super busy
with rehearsals,
like Devin said.
What do I have
to talk to them about anyway?
Mom and Dad come home.
He starts dinner whi
le she fusses all around
making sure Grandpa is okay.
Mabel gets ready to leave.
“You’ll come back, won’t you?” I ask.
“Surely, surely.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Bright and early.”
“Okay.”
“So long now.”
“Bye,” I call,
and watch her drive away
in her long beige car.
She has to
come back.
“Clare, where are my olives?”
I look away from the TV.
“What, Mom?”
“I had a jar of olives in the refrigerator,
and they’re gone.”
“Oh, I think Mabel nibbled on them today.”
I stretch out on the couch.
She doesn’t leave.
“But I just bought the jar.
It was full.”
“Yeah.”
“So, those were special Greek olives.
They were expensive.
Imported.”
“She said they were really good.”
“Well, this won’t do.
Not at all.
This will not do.”
“Mom.” I click off the TV.
“Mabel is worth
a jar of olives.”
She stares at me,
then walks away.
“She’s great, Dad.”
We scootch Grandpa into bed.
“That is such a relief, Clare.
Mabel seems like a very nice person.
How’s that, Lawrence?”
Grandpa nods.
Dad arranges his pillow.
I put the harmonica on his nightstand
with his glasses.
“Night, Grandpa.”
“Sleep well,” says Dad.
He flicks off the light,
and I follow him to the kitchen.
Mom’s off-key voice
sings out from the shower.
Dad and I grin.
“Never did sound good,
but she loves to sing
and gives it all she’s got.” He laughs.
“Mabel used to sing professionally,” I say.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
We load the dinner dishes into the dishwasher.
“That must have taken a lot of work.”
“She didn’t say. But I guess so.”
I clink one plate against another.
“Here.” Dad makes a space for me
to slip a dish into the rack.
“She said she didn’t enjoy singing professionally,
so she sings for herself now.”
“I can understand that.”
I dry my hands on the towel.
“I never really thought of doing that before.
I thought that’d
kind of be like failing
or something.”
Dad leans back against the counter
and looks at me.
“How can it be a failure
if she enjoys what she’s doing?”
“Yeah. I know. That’s what I’m saying.”
“Good.” He ruffles my hair.
“Dad,” I moan.
He does it again.
In my dream
I’m dancing.
Not learning to dance
or working at the barre.
I’m really dancing.
But not on a stage.
It’s Grandpa’s garden.
I twirl faster
and leap higher.
I’m turned inside out
and feel as beautiful
as the flowers.
I can see myself.
Dancing.
Happy.
Could I?
In the morning
I plié at the end of my bed.
Shorts and a T-shirt sure let you move.
I frappé, grand battement,
and hold an attitude.
Could I, for myself?
I toe step over to the dresser
and tilt the mirror to see my face.
Could I?
I brush back my hair
and pin it into a bun.
Maybe
I could.
“Mabel, you don’t need to do this,” says Mom.
“Nonsense.” She serves up breakfast
for Mom and me.
“Mr. Dwight and Mr. Lawrence
already ate. You two dig into those toads.”
“Toads?” I ask, staring at my egg
in the center of a piece of bread.
“Toad-in-a-hole. You all never had this before?”
Mom and I shake our heads.
“The egg is the toad
sitting snug in the bread. Go on.
You can trust a girl from Mississippi.”
We take a bite.
“Mmmm,” we say together.
“Best toad I ever had,” says Mom.
“Well, I don’t know about that.” Mabel
sets the iron skillet in the sink. “I’ve had
some good
frogs’ legs before.”
“Eewwww,” I say.
And we laugh.
Grandpa looks up from his morning TV show
to give Mom a kiss.
“Have a good day,” she says to him,
“and be sweet to Mabel.”
He smiles.
“What’s that, Mom?” I ask.
“What?”
“That fancy notebook.”
“Oh, that.” She blushes
and shoves it farther down into her book bag.
“It’s a blank book for writing.
If inspiration strikes or something.
If someone should happen to think of words
to write down.
It’s for that.”
I go with her to the front door.
Dad honks from the car.
“Writing what words?”
“Maybe some poetry.
A little haiku.
Cinquain.
You never know.”
“Really? I never knew you wrote stuff.”
She kisses me on the cheek.
“I don’t,
but it’s always been
sort of a dream.”
“Cool.”
I watch her hurry to the car.
Knowing Mom,
it won’t be a haiku,
it’ll be
an epic ballad.
“Let’s load,” says Mabel
from my bedroom doorway.
I look up from my magazine.
“What?”
“I got your granddaddy ready
and packed a lunch.
Let’s go for a hike.”
“Hike?”
“Sure. It’s a treasure of a day.”
She zips off.
A hike with Grandpa?
I pull on some socks and dig out
my hiking boots.
Who knows?
But I can’t wait to find out.
“This van is a beaut.”
Mabel pulls through the intersection.
“You okay back there, Mr. Lawrence?”
“Grumpphher.”
“Good,” she says.
“Are you going to be comfortable
hiking in your dress, Mabel?”
“Surely, surely.”
“How are we going to hike anyway?”
“Most parks have a few paved trails
for wheelchairs.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”
“Okay.”
I have a feeling
there’s not much arguing you can do
with Mabel.
My boots clomp on the asphalt.
We pass a few couples
on the trail.
“Afternoon,” says Mabel.
The people smile
and head down the hill
as we head up.
Little alpine trees
line the way.
Massive meadows
roll down
to where Grandpa’s van is parked.
It looks like a little green dot from here.
“Mmm. Smell that air,
Mr. Lawrence.”
Grandpa and I
take a deep breath.
“It smells so clean
and light,” I say.
“Yep.”
Mabel rolls Grandpa up the incline
like it’s no problem at all.
We take the final bend
and come to a broad, paved circle
with picnic tables.
The Olympic Mountain Range
surrounds us.
“Wow. Snowy peaks as far as you can see.”
“Awesome and mighty,” says Mabel.
We stand there and look.
It’s like everything
is looking back
at tiny us.
“These sweet pickles are delicious.”
I take another crisp bite.
“You a pickle lover?” asks Mabel.
“Definitely.”
She pulls Grandpa closer to the table
and gives him another spoonful of yogurt.
“Will Grandpa always have to eat soft stuff?”
“Oh, I imagine he’ll recover
some more of his swallowing ability.”
“I hope so.”
We unwrap a couple thick sandwiches.
“Thanks for bringing all this.”
“You’re welcome.”
Two marmot heads pop up
in the grass.
One whistles, and they disappear.
“It’s nice no other people are here,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Mabel wipes
Grandpa’s lips.
“I think it’s fun to meet new folks,
don’t you?”
I shrug.
A gray mountain jay swoops down
and tears some crust off my sandwich.
His slender claws graze my hand,
then he’s off.
“Hey!”
He flaps to a tree top.
Mabel and Grandpa laugh.
“I guess we aren’t so alone
after all,” she says.
“Nope.”
The gray jay
blinks
and nibbles my crust.
Grandpa pulls out the harmonica.
“Play us a doozy, Mr. Lawrence.”
Mabel gets to her feet.
Grandpa’s notes slip and slide
into the air.
“Sweet,” says Mabel.
She looks up at the pale blue sky
and sways.
Grandpa tumbles the notes out faster.
Mabel lifts her hands
high over her head and hums.
The skin shimmies
on the back of her arms.
The music seems to slide right
through her body.
Her pudgy feet take tiny steps in rhythm.
She’s incredibly graceful.
“Come on, Clare,” she says.
“What?” I grip the picnic bench.
“Come dance.”
She sidesteps over,
takes my hand,
and pulls me up.
I’m stiff in front of this