Grandma’s Butterfly

by Deborah Farmer

I was small enough to curl up like a caterpillar

on the arm of the sofa chair where my grandmother sat

while my mother undid her curlers and rattled on

about cousins and neighbors and PTA duties.

She almost never left the house after her fall—

she was too frail for Utah’s stinging winter air

and the raging summer sun beat down too hard.

And visitors were just me and Mom and uncles and aunts.

But she insisted every week that her hair be set and styled

whether for pretense, vanity, or simple dignity.

Or all three wrapped and twisted in Grandma’s trademark fashion

that removed the nastiness of all three words and left only honor.

My mother finished playing hairdresser and discreetly checked

the undiscussed bedpan without bumping grandma’s tender hip.

When she left, my grandma gazed down at my fuzzy little body

and I snuggled in closer on her healthy side while she began to sing:

“One little, two little, three little Indians. Four little, five little …”

and long, opaque fingers danced youthfully in front of me.

When I dozed off, she awkwardly wrapped me in a cocoon-like ball

with part of her rag quilt, but I was content to remain warm and wingless.

[photo] Stone Cold Face by Tanya Schlup