Someday I will play Bean-Bag Baseball

    Or Ode to Joy

Joy shakes in giggles as she

says she’s not really a babe,

the men only compared her to Ruth while

playing Bean Bag Baseball.

Joy, who has been a guide through

times in my life.

Jumping out of bed and dancing

when my dearest Amie was born.

Bringing herds  of “mothers” to visit the hospital

when visiting hours were for parents

and grandparents only.

She grand-mothered with passion unmatched,

loved and cried, bought sugar with abandon

and believed only in the genius of her progeny. 

I crave the grandmotherly talent so easy for her.

And when her husband’s brain ruptured,

and rendered him helpless,

she never waivered in her care

for years beyond hope.

A model to which to aspire

in my short time as caregiver.

And now she shows me how to survive,

widowness.

She, pulled out of her home complaining

before she had mourned, taking pans

she didn’t need, for sameness.

She continued, fighting to find contentment

in a foreign home.

She put one foot in front of the other

attaining a state where

 she could laugh at bat.

She lived.

Perhaps one day I will play bean-bag baseball.