We used to have picnics on a bayside beach.
My grandmother was too frail to walk on the sand,
So we used to carry her from the car
Which made her grumble,
Which was just grandma.
We never knew how much she hated being carried
Because we were so busy feeling manly,
My brother and I.
And once we got her settled out of the breeze
She would say
“There, this is nice. . .” or something like that
And when you are young you never question a smile.
So that was our permission to run off
Leaving our half-eaten sandwiches
While she sat there under her hat
Facing outward to the bay.