For a while, we watched from the sunny front room,
Us with our eyes, daughter through the telephone.
She wanted to see the races she'd nicknamed “Doby Races.”
She’d been in them herself, taking her turns rolling down
The slight slope of Sixth toward the Lake, hoping to win,
Trying not to oversteer, each of the previous three years.
Eventually, estranged from the event, she tired of making
Commentary while squinting at her screen through my lens,
Twenty hours’ of nonstop-driving time south of here.
She waved goodbye and left to go play with a friend.
Moments later, an old friend of our own, one who shall
Wish, without a doubt, to remain unnamed, appeared
On the lawn, clearly intending to knock, so we went
To the door to greet her and wave her in. “I’m not here
To visit,” were her first words, and “why aren’t you outside
Watching the kids?” We pointed out to her the comforts
Of watching through the picture window from a comfy chair,
And anyway, daughter wasn’t here to race herself this year.
“It’s stuffy in here. Today is a beauty. Did she win?”
“Who?” “The girl who was just racing. I don’t know her name.”
“There are a lot of racers. I’m not sure which one you mean.”
She took a seat. “Well I’m listing my property again,
As you know. It’ll be up in a couple of weeks. How
Does anyone do these things? How does anyone even think
About such things? Of course, it’s terrible to think about.
But one feels one should plan. Does anyone do it correctly?
Does anyone plan in time?” In the usual futile effort
To comfort and make common cause through our own,
Irrelevant anecdotal experience, we raised the case
Of a grandmother who assiduously staged life’s partial
Withdrawals ahead of necessitating future events,
The house sold before it got too big, the cabin by a lake
Her sons mourned losing (“Yes,” murmured our friend, nodding,
Perhaps thinking of her own grown offspring in the States,
“No one wants it to change”), the smaller house sold for a condo,
All before anyone needed a hospice or a nursing home bed.
To ourselves, we thought of that same grandmother’s last years
Spent in limbo, in just such an imprisoning bed. “How old
Was she, when she was doing all this? I’m seventy-six.”
“About your age,” we said. She nodded. “That’s good.
It’s good know someone did it. It can be done. Did you go
To the pancake breakfast?” Not without daughter here
To enjoy it, the tenner donation to stand in line and then wolf
Down pasty pancakes drowned in cheap syrup, no thanks.
“Well, I knew it would be that. And the slice of salty ham
And the over-salted, cold scrambled eggs. But do you
Know what? I paid my ten bucks, then I saw how long
The line was, and I asked for my money back. Then I went
To New Market and for nine bucks I got a whole jug
Of good maple syrup from Quebec, and I went home
And made my own pancakes from good, thick slices of bread
And poured it all over that! And it was delicious.” Her head rose
And her eyes shone. “I need to get back out in the fresh air.
I’m sorry. I didn’t really stop in to visit. I just figured
You were here.” We handed her a handwritten poem to go.
She won’t read the ones we post, hates to read anything
On computer screens. She ambled back across the lawn
To the road where the races were still running. No matter
How much there is to fear, how much cause for grumbling,
So long as you can game the system in some small way, maybe,
Snatch a little victory, and take delight in it, so long as you can
Be pleased with yourself and take delight, you’re alright.
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