And every now and then, in the midst of some perfect pleasure, maybe they will smile at their kids and say, “You know, this reminds me of something I used to do with my grandma.”
—Letty Cottin Pogrebin
Back when she was six, my youngest granddaughter and I
Would sit on the floor and build houses of cards together,
Ambitious and fragile constructions not long for this world,
This world I too am not too long for.
Will she remember our shared concentration?
Our heads, hers with wheat-colored curls, sometimes bumping each other?
Our knees, hers with cartooned Band-Aids, sometimes bumping each other?
Our hearts full of grandiose architectural plans?
Will she remember we steadied our fingers whenever we added a card,
Knowing the slightest of slips could bring the house down?
Will she remember we shallowed our breathing whenever we added a card,
Knowing that huffing and puffing could blow the house down?
Will she remember they kept falling down, and we kept picking up,
Restoring the rooms and expanding to two decks, then three,
Until our imperial dreams succumbed to carelessness or the giggles,
Until one of us—maybe her, maybe me—huffed and puffed?
Were we building something stronger than a house of cards?
Will she remember?