Elizabeth
Howard, US
Dust Cap
Granny’s hair was thin,
snow-white,
a twisted bun on the nape of her neck...
She wore apron and dust cap, a pouf
of dimity or percale, printed
in tiny flowers, decorated with lace,
as she washed dishes, broke beans,
embroidered buttonholes, brewed tonics,
watered flowers she’d sowed—
blue morning-glories by the porch,
yellow four o’clocks by the bell pole,
orange zinnias under the windows,
red hollyhocks by the garden fence.
I shadowed her as she drew
a bucket of water from the tank
and sprinkled dribbles on each plant.
When chemo snatched my hair, I bought
a white turban, wig, and sundry hats.
Weary and downcast one evening,
I put on a white robe and the turban,
headed to the living room to lie
on the couch where husband and son
watched the Atlanta Braves.
Husband froze, mouth agape,
son started up out of the chair,
a ghost walking toward them.
Wounded, I hastened to the bedroom
and looked in the mirror,
Granny, her dust cap, deflated,
awry, looking back at me.
