You walked long, lean and bent in your black suit,
fingers angled by arthritis, palsied,
thick hair with traces of gray,
a brush of a mustache.
Back from church you paused at hopscotch games
to offer tobacco flavored candy,
amusement in your blue eyes.

Was my mother orphaned at three
when you lost your wife in childbirth?
The newborn sister given to relatives,
my mother raised by housekeepers until,
at fourteen, a household maid.
Were you numbed by black diphtheria years before?
With shovel you buried two children in one week,
two others also that year.

Your spittoon sat on newspaper
beside the mohair rocking chair,
dribbles of spit on the brown arm,
burnt leavings from a pipe near
your prayer book, written in Dutch.

You liked soft-boiled eggs, coffee in your saucer,
(the coffee cup rattled when you poured)
talking Dutch to your daughters-in-law,
routine, regular, meal times.
"Keep the newspaper together -- wait until Grandpa's read it!"
 

We met the priest with lighted candle, crucifix,
prayed with him, your nun sister's picture on the wall,
My last glimpse saw you upright in Bed,
an aunt's back your backrest.