Insistently, the telephone rings.
A frenzied cacophony of excited
communication loops from the
child's mouth to her grandmother's ear
in a blur of bubbling confidence:
"I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts."
Tumbling word after giddy word.
Grandmother stifling that impulse
to commiserate, enquire whether
child has had her daily movement,
signifying overall good health,
though it might likely appeal.
Out tumbles the diffused
incoherence of jollity, the nexus
a shared hypothesis of "what-ifs" with
another giddy friend, both
collapsing in convulsions of
appreciation at their cleverness.
Deference to their wit and wisdom
a testament to the tentative
uncertainties of approaching, yet
elusive maturity in adolescents,
as yet devoted to light-headed
affirmations of self, alternating
with morose defences of same.
Condensed as "not my fault!"
that declaration of being hard done by,
misunderstood, and treated unfairly.
A sad lament to which grandmother
is treated during these quotidian dialogues.
The decrepit and the delighted, the frail
and the robust, one hard of hearing,
the other strong on cheering.
These conversations, initiated
by turn with petulant growls, bemoaning
oneself as victim; on the other hand as
brilliant over-achiever, in modest self
recognition. Take your pick; it's either
the piercing lilt of delight in the absurd
or the miserable pathos of self-pity
in the absence of justice as in "it's not fair!"
Naught but extremes, no median.
The language, syntax and imperatives
spoken by each remains forever foreign,
one to the other. Confidence restored
by the closing argument: "Love you!"
Loving forbearance, above all.
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