Good Bones

Good Bones

They say our house has good bones;

Age 90something or other, she is made of lath and plaster 

And presumably the hardest rocks ever known to man,

such that to hang a picture is to bend nails fruitlessly and give up after much swearing.

My own bones I am less sure of, those vertebrae are difficult,

But Gammer, oh Gammer had good bones.

The way her hands, with her knuckles starting to show the arthritis, 

moved over the keys of the piano.

The sight of her swimming, 

impossibly long arms moving in a slow arc that seemed interminable.

A photo, running on the beach in Delaware, 

all arms, legs, and a broad smile, 

as though the parts of the photo showing her limbs had somehow been stretched.

In old age, she stumbled; squawking, the neighbors brought her home, to me.

Seeking an extra bit of balance, extending one arm ever outward, her wrist turned up slightly, like a ballerina.

Funny thing: she was fine. Indestructible. 

It wasn’t her bones that gave up.