Something Old, Something New

Claire Scott

My five year old grandson carries a Brontosaurus 
backpack with his orange lunch, a bottle of water 
and an extra pair of pull ups, just in case.
He hops on the bus and settles in his usual seat,
holding a toy, perhaps the green engine Percy
or maybe his bright blue monster truck.

When my son went to overnight camp, he hid
his GI Joe with a Kung Fu Grip under the shirts
and pants and sweaters in his suitcase.
He hoped I wasn’t looking, it was too babyish.
Later he told me he shared a cabin with Jeremy
who brought a stuffed cougar with only one ear.

I took three I Heart You bears to college
to put on my bed. Others brought Ginny dolls
pretending they were cute decorations, 
matching their new ruffled bedspreads. But 
we knew we all needed a seed of the familiar 
in order to safely leave home.

When she was older than old, stooped back,
half mast mind, painful bunions on both big toes,
my grandmother announced she wanted photos 
of her husband, her four children and all seven
grandkids buried with her, along with 
her saucy crimson heels, just in case.