Scratching Grandpap's Back

My sister, Sherry, and I
sat in the back,
quiet as always
as Mom drove the winding Sandy Creek Road.
We pulled in behind Grandpap's rusted station wagon
crammed with old paint cans and drop cloths
that blocked the view of Gramma's irises and his overgrown garden
where once he dug potatoes out with his fingers,
gave them to us to eat like apples.

Gramma waved down from the window to us,
glad we made it safe.
Purple begonias all the way up the steps,
to the door that had an "S" on it for "Shorty"
what the guys at the beer garden called Grandpap

We tip toed in, with our gallons of water, because their water went brown.
fit the water on the table,
with the ketchup and Worcestershire Sauce they never put away.
Whispered kisses on Gramma
hoping not to wake Grandpap,
But, It was too late, he heard us.
Called us to his rocker. "Girls come here."
"Me on one knee,
Sherry on the other.
We sat up as straight as we could and watched his Bowling for Dollars.
Held our breath while he coughed blood in his hanky.
Sherry, being younger, always got stuck with the comb.
Flakes fell like snow, on his plaid, flannel robe
while I scratched his back with that awful long-handled, plastic back-scratcher
whose fingers would dig into him
if a flake ever fell on me.

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