The ladies in the senior center craft room Complain about their aging husbands: “He never this …” and “He always that …” I think about the two hydration bottles -- tea buckets we call them -- My Curtis takes to work, counting the days Until he can retire from the railroad. They get grimy on the train engine And they’re hard to clean. Sometimes I think, “If I have to scrub these tea buckets one more time … !” But I say nothing. The men at the senior center do it too. They shuffle down to the exercise room Stooped or pushing walkers To sit on the equipment and talk About their aging wives. “She never this …” and “She always that …” Except for Walter, who doesn’t say anything Because his wife just died. What he would give to have her here To complain about again! The way she always threw out his favorite clothes Just because the hat was stained, the shirt faded Or the pants had holes in the back pockets. Now it’s her scarf he can’t part with. The silk still carries the scent of her perfume. Sitting in the craft room, Stringing copper- and teal-colored beads On thread, making necklaces for the prom closet At the Methodist Church, I am quiet. “Hey, you old people!” Oscar shouts, laughing From the doorway as Doris shoos him toward the car. I was widowed young, then remarried. I know if it happens again, if he goes first It will be those tea buckets, And the infernal cleaning of them, That I will miss the most. Copyright Cindy Brookshire, 2023 CINDY BROOKSHIRE is a regional representative for the North Carolina Writers’ Network and an advisor to Triangle East Writers. Her books include A Heart for Selma; Little Towns; and (as contributing writer) Johnston County Creates. She coordinates weekly Activate Selma meetings and Telling Our Stories sessions in Selma, North Carolina. She loves small towns!The ladies in the senior center craft roomComplain about their aging husbands:“He never this …” and “He always that …”I think about the two hydration bottles-- tea buckets we call them -- My Curtis takes to work, counting the daysUntil he can retire from the railroad. They get grimy on the train engineAnd they’re hard to clean.Sometimes I think, “If I have to scrub these tea buckets one more time … !”But I say nothing. The men at the senior center do it too.They shuffle down to the exercise roomStooped or pushing walkersTo sit on the equipment and talk About their aging wives.“She never this …” and “She always that …”Except for Walter, who doesn’t say anythingBecause his wife just died.What he would give to have her hereTo complain about again!The way she always threw out his favorite clothesJust because the hat was stained, the shirt fadedOr the pants had holes in the back pockets.Now it’s her scarf he can’t part with.The silk still carries the scent of her perfume. Sitting in the craft room, Stringing copper- and teal-colored beadsOn thread, making necklaces for the prom closetAt the Methodist Church, I am quiet.“Hey, you old people!” Oscar shouts, laughingFrom the doorway as Doris shoos him toward the car.I was widowed young, then remarried. I know if it happens again, if he goes firstIt will be those tea buckets, And the infernal cleaning of them,That I will miss the most. Cindy Brookshire 2023
Posted in Guest Poet
