Lulu

Last night my grandmother appeared.
I talk to her rarely.
I talk at her.
Usually I've just shown her my tricks,
my knitting,
my singing,
my children.

But last night she sat facing me on the sofa,
her hair a beautiful gray,
glasses with wide black frames that suited her.
She looked right at me. Right at me.
I asked her, "Do you miss the lake?"
Yes, she said. That's what she misses the most.
"Me, too," I said, "I miss that the most." And I cried.
I didn't miss her lake,
but I know now what it meant for her
to be in Maine
away, on her own,

I missed my lake.
I told her I look forward to it and didn't say extremely,
but I felt it.
Like a dancer would show with her arms
and her face.
Urgently.
Intensely.
Longingly.

I was about to say how her lake was so different,
that she was more social than I,
that she seemed to need

people around her,
that she'd call and ask when we were coming.
But the opportunity escaped,
and suddenly my husband's nephew
made his way onto the sofa
in the middle
and smiled
waiting for me to take his picture.
Then my mother was there and my aunt,
all on the sofa.
And I couldn't find her.