You could count on them. They were the ones with
sucking candy in their handbags. Butterscotch or peppermint.

In two or three weeks my son will be a father
and I, a grandma again. He laughs at me—
at how, for as long as he can remember,
I've had a tissue in my pocket.
True, I think. Tissues, not candy—because there's always, always
a nose that needs wiping, a scrape to blot dry,
a face smeared with chocolate, begging to be cleaned.
Tissues are so useful, so necessary.
But I do have Pepperidge Farm cookies in my kitchen
cabinet and Dr. Seuss books on my bookshelves.
You might find a stray Lego piece
under my couch or a teddy bear abandoned
in the corner of the toy room. Puzzles, cars,
dolls, Lincoln logs stuffed into baskets,
waiting to be played with.

No candy in my bag, but my arms are delirious,
as if already holding our soft, sweet girl
whose name I don't know yet.
I am waiting for the call,
tissues in every pocket.


© by Lori Levy.
Used with the author's permission.