The Hummingbird

by Gaetan Sgro
Annals of Internal Medicine

for Alice

Well into her nineties
it is imprecise to say my grandmother
rises early. In fact, she is always
either awake or awakening,

ever drifting above her blue
carpeted landscape, balancing
cups of tea, a plate with one cookie,
picture frames.

Through dusty glass
above the sink she admires
a hummingbird's delicate hovering,
the needle beak siphoning red nectar

silently. Despite the heat
my grandmother gloves herself
in bright pink Jersey—
a sleight of hand—

the way the prickle of capsaicin
draws attention from other forms
of pain. After ninety-nine years
the shadow-hours lengthen.

Silence cracks windows
in time. In the parlor, a smoke ring
lingers above a game of bridge
from last century. Every night

the laughter and the faces live again
behind the screen, and every morning
my grandmother throws the curtains open—
so the policeman driving by will know

her heart still beats. Across the empty kitchen
her steps are light and lightening.
Her brightly covered hands still shake
audaciously. Beneath the window is a glass

of Gatorade—to ward off dehydration—
and my grandmother's memory, drawing
crisp figure eights. In the hard glare
of morning, she bows her head and drinks.