White Christmas

White Christmas

They never have snow in Abilene

so four inches dropping wet

out of a wide, plains sky

on the twenty-sixth of December

is more miracle than ambiance

Grandpa, having slept the night

in jeans and boots in his chair

works up a smile as we pack ourselves

into the tiny hospital room

They've been expecting us

Grandma, one cheek drooping

stubborn as she forms her greeting

How are you-all?

her left hand lying soft, puffy

as dough in her lap

is dressed already for the holiday

in her red pant-suit

with the Indian-head nickel buttons

all buttoned and modest, pretending

the wheel-chair isn't there

Can you be-lieve this snow today?

Beyond the window a hastily-rolled snowman

is slowly lowering his twiggy arms, his face

sliding away under the sun

He will be gone in thirty minutes

My daughters, having given her the picture

of themselves and their sleds, are petting

Grandma's hand, singing softly

tracing lines to connect the brown spots

with the tips of their own tiny fingers

smoothing her rounded shoulders

Grandpa watches, eyes keener than ours

to the subtle changes—her eyes sinking deeper

the three second waves of blankness

the growing weight of her frame

as he lifts, pulls her into bed

and the fading of something unnamable

something central to her dignity

her integrity

something his grandaughters feel

without knowing as they pat and stroke

her pale skin

Therapy time, the nurse intrudes

and Grandma tugs my sleeve

as they wheel her by Don't work

too hard

when you go back home

she slurs, enjoy

your day in the sun

And Grandpa follows them down the hall

to make certain, among other things

the nurses take care with Grandma's buttons