First Contact
John Rutherford
May 28, 2023
The first thing my grandmother asked
was if we had seen my grandfather,
she forgot he died, but ninety-three years
is a very long time to be alive.
We told her that we hadn’t,
throats tight, masks fogging our eyeglasses,
the first visit allowed amidst the lockdowns
in the locked ward at her nursing home.
Silsbee, Texas is only twenty miles
from home, but it felt so much longer
in those early days of the months-long Spring Break,
the furthest I had traveled in weeks.
They checked our temps at the door,
all in the upper 90s but no fevers,
so they gave us heavy masks,
N-95s that protruded like a duck’s bill.
The door to her ward was magnetic,
and she stuck to it, waiting but trapped
by her feeble legs and arms, one escape
too many had lost her the power chair.
We settled into our rhythms,
I told her about being married and work,
and she showed me her arts and crafts,
but she didn’t recognize me once I took off my hat.
She insisted I do so, as a gentleman
“never wears his hat indoors”
but my retreating hairline surprised her,
and I could tell she didn’t know me anymore.
I kissed her cheek when the hour was up,
the coast was clear, and it had been a while,
masked slipped down, first contact,
and she knew me again, for a moment.
John Rutherford is a poet writing in Beaumont, Texas. Since 2018 he has been an employee in the Department of English at Lamar University.