I worry that my grandchildren...but by Jean Feldeisen

Picture me when I get too old to chase you down.

On stiff legs

with frightful hair and missing teeth, I

totter out onto the front stoop, waving,

implore one of you passing. See me.

There are fairy tales about old women

living alone,

the empty house, doors swinging open on their hinges,

mice taking over the cupboards.

Years past, like the witch in the candy house, I lured

young Hansels and Gretels with cookies and cups of tea.

Now they are grown, and I stock five spice powders, zaatar,

and extra butter in case they run out. My wicked price

conversation. Even that is work, now, to suck up

their fast-talking lingo through my

thin straw.

Didn't her grandmother make Red Riding Hood's cape?

The one she wore as she skipped

carrying cake and wine to her sick

grandmother?

Never mind about that wolf.

I have made the capes and cakes.

I want you

to come skipping.

My own grandmother tried to crack a joke

from that egg (anguish)

When no one

had called her for a while, she'd telephone

our house

Did you all break your arms?

But I wouldn't like to be the grandmother lying

in bed, bedclothes up around my neck, just

waiting

for girl or wolf or woodsman.

Better to get up,

shoulder my axe─

my arm's not broken─

and hack away

at that fable.

Jean is a 75-year-old grandmother from New Jersey living on a farm in Maine. A retired psychotherapist, she began writing poetry at 70. At 72, she had my first poem published. Her first chapbook, Not All Are Weeping, was released in May of 2023 by Main Street Rag Publishing.