worry bones

Poetry Thursday asks for a prose poem.



worry bones

when there is nothing for my anxious fingers—no knitting begun, no salve to apply in a wringing motion—I will rub the flat of granite polished first by the sea and then by my nervous thumb. Grammy used to sigh, more tone than air, and hold her fingertips, right hand crushing the left. when she died, I left a pile of river rocks at her grave. my mother would wear a path in the hallway, green carpet with a center line of sad pile. she still walks and frets with a peek of voice, a click, a shallow sigh. growing up, I sat on my bed, back to the wall, rocking, rocking, each bump against plaster soothing, knocking me back to my senses. I knit or lotion up or rub this stone more often now as my daughter rocks and sighs and wears a path from door to door, anticipating the grim, waiting for bad news she knows is bound to come, she’s sure is just beyond the fence, where dogs and cars collide. my daughter has the worry bone, which we cannot leave at someone’s grave, cannot rub for comfort or bury in the yard.



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