TWO BUTTERMILKS FOR PAMELA

I knock but know she can’t hear me.
The TV blasts through the door. I turn the knob,
walk into the kitchen calling
Meals on Wheels.

I set her institutional lunch
on the counter. In the other room,
like a gray mourning dove,
she’s perched before the screen.

I approach gingerly, afraid I’ll startle her.
She looks up with a wide smile.
Don’t get up, I say. I brought your lunch.

Ninety-four years old she lives alone,
in a mobile home on a twisting mountain trail,
her son a stone’s throw down the road.

Struggling to her feet, she pushes
her walker toward me,
Oh, thank you. A hundred times thank you.
I enjoy so much the buttermilk. It keeps me going.
I get two, you know.

We inch our way to the door.
Hope you enjoy it, Mrs. Lawrence.
She takes my hand, speaks to me
as if we were dear friends,
Call me Pamela.     

                        --- Glenda Council Beall