her guttural laugh let us know she got it,
the most subtle double entendre.
Yet even family members shouted in her face
as if she couldn't hear, used language
more appropriate to a child.
Brain damaged, so the story went,
born with the navel chord
wrapped three times around her neck.
Grandma took responsibility,
it was that merry-go-round ride
during pregnancy. Clutched the pole
in terror, neck stretched, back arched, legs too tense;
you could see it all transferred to Lucille's body.
Her other daughters knew grandma's truth, her guilt:
Lucille had been conceived out of wedlock:
sins of the parents right there in the Bible,
the words Grandma suffered.
The family lie told Lucille: she'd been committed
to the Faribault state hospital, age nine,
so they could make her better,
knowing she'd be warehoused all her life.
She was patient with us, repeated her strained
sentences while we guessed what she was saying
like some game show.
Much of the annual conversations were the perennial questions:
do you think I'm getting better? Yes, yes we said.
When can I come home for good? Soon, soon we said.
We all had the same script that made us feel better.
Since I can remember, I joined that chorus.
She must have believed to some extent.
When Oral Roberts did an alter call she stood
placed her hand on the TV and prayed for healing.
What does it hurt to play along, give her hope?
Lucille, 1915-2001, Awarded Special Olympics medal,1983, that reads on the back: Let me win, but if I can't win, let me be brave in the attempt.
