Dancing with Grandma Grace
by James Thielman

At ninety-seven, she still hears
Jimmy Dorsey and his band,
floating through summer air
at the Northpoint retirement home,

even though the only instrument in sight
is a piano and, sometimes, the old guy
with his slide-trombone.
She glides like a puff of smoke

held here only by my hands,
keeping her from flying away
to My Blue Heaven. At five-foot two,
eyes of blue, she tells everyone

over and over that this is her son
and she wonders how his six-foot
frame danced out of her tiny self
like some stardust melody of long ago.



 

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