Jane Medved

before I gave away my grandmother's
diamond, cut and polished beyond
recognition, which is just as well,
since I hated her. I don't even have
that many memories. I know she had
tight, white hair and a bowl of hard
green candies. I might have imagined
the plastic on the couch. My aunt said
those girls were beautiful, but helpless,
and yes, she was married to a travelling
salesman. There are pictures of this,
so you could say she was brittle, but not
always alone. I remember she liked
to tell me I couldn't possibly be hungry,
and my elder sister refused to go there.
To this day I have a dislike of old ladies,
even myself. She died in the hospital
where I never had to see her. There must
have been a funeral, everyone settled
in orderly rows. I must have been there.
There isn't much left of her. Some flow
blue china that no one is allowed to touch,
and a polished end table in my father's
house. It has a hidden compartment
designed for books. Anne of Green Gables
is disintegrating there. Once I put a glass
on its bare wooden top. It left behind
a perfect white circle. My father still
points to it with clenched teeth.
Do you see this? Do you see what you did?