And They Danced

This hot, buggy weather reminds me of a person much missed, and a poem I wrote in the hot days of late spring some years ago  .  .  . and the many other persons missed, as well  .  . .

Cars frozen, still for minutes long

As we pass by,

Van after jeep

After van

After hearse.

Newborn corn leaves whip

In the wind

As clouds waltz overhead

And the humidity

Sticks us to our places

And to each other in embrace.

Heavy, damp pats on backs,

While bugs buzz, veer, and pinch.

Suited ladies in sherbet or baby blue

Sashay to luncheon tables with

Tall cups of lemonade.

Their outing for the day

Is Aunt Gerry's farewell meal

Of meatloaf coated with catsup

And cheesy potatoes.

Interrupted by a family who grieves

For Mom, for Aunt,

For a generation now done.

Oh, we grieve,

Heavily.

For they were the crux of the family,

And we were merely

Spectators.

The children.

Who

Slurped Doreen's noodles,

And basked in her warmth.

Hustled along at

George Henry's "Chop-chop,"

And walked tall by his side.

Marveled at Lucille's painted nails,

And knew of the love behind her poise;

Hovered near Geraldine's quiet blushes,

and grinned with her smirking, pursed lips.

Harold we knew not well,

And Davy, David, Jim,

The bridge between generations

Who showed us the way to college,

Must certainly mourn, for he stands

Alone.

Even though surrounded

By ocean and friends,

And letters from states up North

And out West.

For they once had teased and cackled,

Bristled, and made do.

They fought the war,

And got ahead

Eventually.

Mass was in Latin, and Pepsi came in bottles.

They were Finches and Kelmels.

They were.  They were.

Record album, eight-track, and cassette

Brought forth the tune,

And now, grown wallflowers,

We, find ourselves left

To take the lead.

Thank you, my elders, for what you've given to me.  I am sorry I don't know the real dances.  I just sort of bounce and sway.  You are missed.