Grandma liked to walk,
oh, how she liked to walk,
especially in the cold.
It clears my head, she said.

The neighbors puzzled,
what's she doing out there
at such an hour!
Where's she going anyway,
what's the rush?

Maybe you saw her, early one morning,
through heavy eyes, the old lady
in the red hat, a coat like a rug,
her handbag swinging softly like a pendulum.

I remember now
that trip down Broadway,
clutching my hand,
my short legs throbbing,
you pulling me along,
repeating in your English,
"they'll be plenty time to rest,
plenty time."

What was it with you, Grandma, always walking?





All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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