Crossword Hands

Out of the corner of my eye the memory tugged at my heart.
Pen against paper, words parsed out from obscure clues on the printed paper.
Hands. Gnarled with age, swollen from arthritic joints, grasping the pen that look small in ancient hands.
A second glance and the memory disappeared into the stranger’s hands.

Pen. Crossword.
Unwavering confidence as mind flipped through the card catalogue of a lifetime
To render a word that would fit the confines of the squares before him.
Even into this nineties, the crossword was a daily ritual.

A glance. A memory.
And suddenly the years slip away and you are here again.
Sitting at the great oak table in the dining room in your chair
The one that had your unspoken name written upon it.
The daily crossword, newspaper folded just so, your pen blocking out the letters.
Just so.

It was a lifetime ago. A memory ago.
Tearing at my heart as much today as when you slipped away from us.
How I miss seeing you sitting there, crossword before you and tea mug in hand.

Coffee. You used to drink coffee.
The sound of coffee percolating, as the rich, bitter aroma of Folgers seeped through the house.
You gave up coffee and switched to tea
But the memory of coffee in the morning, with you making breakfast is the memory that remains.

Funny how a glance brings memories flooding through my heart.
And the missing, the wanting, begins again.
Overwriting the never ending feeling of loss.

This entry was posted in family, poetry, Reflections. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Crossword Hands

  1. Acornbud says:

    Beautiful words and loving memories.

  2. Julie says:

    His mind was bright as a light, my friend! Such a great memory!

  3. This makes me want to cry. My mom did the crossword every day. In pen, including the Sunday NYT version. This is such a beautiful tribute.

  4. weebug says:

    Lorette, I hope they were happy tears.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *