Pom

                                            Pom

“Now Honey, be quiet and don’t say a word,”
Dad said as he helped me out of the car.
He was worried about Mom.
Five year olds don’t always think before they speak.
To me, this was just another visit to Pom and Grammy’s  house.
I didn’t know.

Inside, I was a tiny piece of comic relief as aunts, uncles,
and unknown others reached out with warm intentions.
Flitting about between them, I thought I heard Pom’s voice.
I couldn’t see his face.
Dad pulled me up to look atop the massive, white bed.
Pom looked the same to me.

                Skipping up the walkway, burning my feet
                on the hot concrete, I run inside to Pom.
                The windows were lit by the sunshine
                behind a yellow crystal ashtray on a pole
                next to Pom’s favorite chair.

Something was different.  There was no laughter,
only the quiet voices the older people use, older people
I had never seen before.
And why was Pom’s bed downstairs?

Escaping to a quiet spot under the kitchen table,
I invented little people using the toothpicks with different color
fringes only for special occasions.
No one got angry with me.          

                “Pom, please give me a horsey ride.”
                The strong ex-wrestler picks me up and bounces
                me on his knee.  I laugh between the bumps.
                I am his only grandchild, and
                he is my only grandfather.

Tired of toothpicks, I went back to the living room,
but only found Mom and Grammy.  The sheets no longer moved
at the top of Pom’s bed.  The three of us sat and played Bingo
together, until Mom said it was getting late.

I wish I had known.  I never said good-by.