I saw her, once, when I was
so small the unpaved Connecticut road
seemed a highway of shimmering
suns. My grandmotherís voice
introduced me to Hazel, old
woman who lived there without
running water, who peered at me
hard, said Her eyes will go green.
Summer was just coming in,
Iím sure, air warm enough
for windows to be wide, and I
listened in my speechless shyness
where weeds tickled my grandmotherís
tires, the skirt of my new-to-me
checked cotton thin dress.
She hauls the bucket for me
sometimes, and buys me groceries
I needómy ears catching
Hazelís words, my grandmotherís nodding
murmur, surprise. And then the smooth
wheels on pebbles and sand, sleek
convertible, brilliant white top down:
blond hair in a silken scarf,
dark glasses, hornís honk, fingersí waveó
There she is now! Going home to Mr.
Miller. Hazelís voice , simply accepting,
and me wondering why my grandmother
whispered Marilyn, stars in her eyes.