Today, Love: An Anthology of Self

What to Tell the Granddaughter Whose Name You Don't Remember

Make her salad with extra carrot jelly,

(it's her least favorite food but it reminds her of you)

and strawberry ice cream from the box,

and sit her down in the driveway

with a sleeping bag for the Ohioan summer night chill.

Tell her something of the past—

she has strong connections with personal history—

like how you milked the cow when your brother went to war,

or how he swore you were the best pitcher in town

even out of the boys,

or how you came to be valedictorian of your measly country school.

Maybe in return she'll tell you what grade she's in

for the sixth time since August,

or how to differentiate her from her sister,

so you'll know which one has blonde hair

and which one to ask about college.

Maybe she'll even tell you

her name.

Once she has, you can say anything at all

or nothing.

It might be impossible for you, but she might prefer it.

After all,

she might be imagining you throwing a baseball,

and you wouldn't want to interrupt that.