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Manhattans at Six

Into Brooklyn
She danced
With black and white photos
Of long graceful limbs
Red painted lips upon
A laugh lined smile
And Irish raven hair
Kind blue eyes to match

Her feet still tap, as mine mimic
Her graceful limbs
Now delicate
Her ornate fingers
Show me the mandolin and Saxophone
The eight fingered man would play
Upon the Spanish Civil War boat

Labor day as her grandfather made
Exclaims an article in the paper
Thick glasses, plaid pants
White belted dresses and coifed hair
Of proud heritage made apparent to us
On the living room wall

She thanks her father for carrying the music
She never knew to play
As she listens to my Rhapsody in Blue
Everyone but she cringes at the high G
Chopin mimicking freckled hands
Make her laugh
In adoration

I laugh back I adoration of her stories
And admiration of
Sapphires coated with diamonds

Persian trunks and
Russian hats worn to city plays
That I now ruin

We didn’t have much now
She would always say
In an explaining tone
She had the world as I understood

Indian ivory tusked tables
Antique instruments now gone away
Where my buried treasure was
From marble filled paper weights
To Scotsman with bagpipes
History was tucked in most un-expecting of places

Songs that remind
Of the voice that was
As she strides about
Her graceful dancers hand
Touches mine
As we sway
And watch the falling rain
The cards lined up for go-fish await
For the child to change them to Old Maid

As barrettes are placed in her hair
Earl Gray Tea brews to a whistle
And Pumpernickel toasts
Half a loaf is better than no bread
She always said

The cherries go missing
From the Manhattans at six
The quiet background of golf claps
covered by a trio with Frank Sinatra

Into Auburn
With grey hair
A collection of photos colored black and white
And knees that crack at every shuffle ball change
A stature I exceed
As my arms embrace her fragile back
My Irish laugh lines appear
As she sings to my kind blue eyes
That I learned from her

Manhattans at six
Tom Collins at seven

By Chelsea Whitton