Grandma's Chair

I remember that
old chair,
its grey wood
just a minute
from splinters.


The seat of tapestry
frayed and a bit
dull,
still
it owned quiet strength,
unlike some things
that complain
and give up.


I sat on grandma’s
lap till my
feet met the floor
and reveled in her stories;
while tireless hands,
that held time’s wear,
softly caressed my cheek.


She smelled
crisp,
like Tuesday’s ironing,
gray hair almost
the color of steel
or maybe frost
on a winter
window pane.


At times
her blue
eyes kept
the look of sadness.
Despite
hard times
and some tears,
she stood tall;
facing her foes,
with never a waver
with never a bend.


She kept her
darning needle
busy, snapped
green beans,
soothed her
babies,
laughed and read
her bible
in that old chair.