“Grandmas are moms with lots of frosting.” – author unknown
I cough with late October allergies,
and Ella holds her ears.
My sensitive granddaughter hurts when I do.
Empathy lives in her being.
So, I choose to play, even as I wheeze.
And beg a second puff of inhaler to work. Now.
“I will be okay,” I say
“My medicine is power, just like your smile.“
And the silent music of clear breath
returns to my lungs.
“Halloween magic,” she says,
handing me a reusable grocery bag,
a plastic box of snacks in her lap.
“What’s your costume?” she asks.
“I am an apple,” I answer. “A squirrel
took a bite out of me.“
“Got any apple bandages?“
She giggles and waits
for my next pretend character.
I arrive as a mouse and ask
if she has any cats?
Another smile as I peek inside
her pretend home.
“What’s your costume?” her eager voice asks
as I become a fish with three eyes,
whose third orb roams in every direction.
I complain. “This middle eye. It won’t behave.”
Then, as a cod, I ask Ella
if she wants to share a worm.
“It hasn’t been dead long.”
“Ooh” is a sufficient response.
My imaginative turn entertains too well.
She lets me remain permanent
trick-or-treater.
And my six-foot circled path
along our living room rug mimics a triathlon.
I want to rest,
stare at nothing, disappear
into self-imposed limbo.
But Ella has had two open-heart surgeries.
She carries a tripled twenty-first chromosome.
Down syndrome matches an up personality.
It has sharpened
her awareness of struggle,
life’s balance at a cost.
Ella hugs the box of treats.
She is ready for another round.
Another imaginary personality appears,
a spider with nine legs.
I ask for a Halloween treat.
“Anything is fine.
I have nine appendages to open it.“
terrypetersen 