once:

i remember a car named betsy who left a lime green powder on my fingers when i drew my hand across the slope of the front hood. that was her car.

stutter steps and then:

i used to visit her apartment in highwood. a 2^nd story of a two flat. walk up stairs in the back short legs always thinkin are we there yet. she kept a treasure trove of lincoln logs tinker toys legos dinosaur models i had built or almost finished in a grocery bag in her closet tucked under the eave of that place she called home. these things were always waitin when i'd visit. we would watch creature features and i'd have trouble gettin to sleep. but i'd always manage to forget to be afraid long enough to fall because she was right there next to me. calm steady quiet unassuming walkin around on two feet always ready to hold a hand. always askin what you want for breakfast. always safe. always there.

fast forward whir to:

she is at constant war with the leaves come fall. damn trees. in between the constant skritch skritch skritchin of tines draggin across ground a soft under the breath murmur. good nature cursin god and the trees i imagine "clean up after yourselves" offended. and all this toned by her softly sayin how pretty it all is. if only those damns leaves would quit blowin around. if only it all stays in its proper order.

stumble tumble stand up see:

rush home to find she has fallen. dislocated a couple fingers and a shoulder. damn dog got excited caught the rug and the next thing you know she's layin on the floor. for a few hours. while she has some free time she resets her fingers. farm girls are like that. later the doctor asks her if she wants to take a crack at her shoulder since he couldn't have done a better job.

look here then:

her face is pale. she's been walkin the house all night. indigestion she says. didn't want to be a bother she says. doctor? i don't need no doctor. not until after does she admit that the medicine eases the pressure a bit. and that a heart attack aint indigestion. but she does tell the doctor bypass surgery aint for her. he says maybe 2 years honey. he always smiles when he sees her.

10 years later abruptly:

she still waits for me but now instead of me visitin her to play with my toys in that attic i am the hands and legs she needs only sometimes. you never know when. right up until the stroke takes even the walker away. we spend a lot of quiet time together. almost the same as when i looked up for her hand years before. here though it is my turn to be calm steady quiet unassuming. just like she taught me. and so i am. until she leaves. quietly.

so here we are:

love it all right here right now as well as you can….

because:

everything is change.