Church Greeter

[bruorton]

She leans in, conspiratorial. “It’s the Alzheimer’s,
you know,” she says. “It’s total crud.”
Then she brushes my cheek with her hand.
“I don’t remember your name, but I like your smile.”

Her own smile dazzles, her face crinkling into familiar,
well-used lines. “I’m Tim,” I say. “It’s good to see you.”
Suddenly she reaches up and sticks her index finger
into her mouth, pulling against the inside of her cheek

until it pops out, with the sound of a cork coming free.
I grin, and like a good primate, mimic it back to her.
She laughs. “You’re good!” she declares. I give her
a bulletin. She goes off after someone she needs to hug.

She’s a poet -- was a poet. Still a poet. Her poems
these days are about simple things: the sun on leaves,
the sky after the rain. They do not depend on metaphors
or subtlety; they are direct. They say how beautiful it all is.

After the service, on the porch outside, she considers
my feet. (I’m wearing sandals.) “Good job,” she comments.
“They’re clean.” “My toes?” She nods: yes. Then I see
her hand going up, and I anticipate her. Two corks

sound out of their bottles, simultaneous.