by Abbie Johnson Taylor
“Nine in a crib, oh boy,”
Grammy says, gazing at her hand.
“You wouldn’t know a crib from a rattlesnake,” Granddad quips.
“Now sir, I’ve raised three children.
I should know what a crib is.”
In the summer morning heat,
they sit at their kitchen table,
deal, shuffle, count, peg.
My ten-year-old brain doesn’t understand the game,
but, mesmerized, I watch, fascinated,
as they play, banter, play some more.
Years have passed
since those Colorado summer mornings.
Grammy and Granddad are both gone.
They smile down on my family and me
from their cribbage table in the sky.
~ ~ ~
In the summer of 1971, I was visiting my maternal grandparents in Denver, Colorado. Years later, I wrote the above poem, inspired by my memories of watching them play cribbage, which they did, without fail, every morning after breakfast. They never invited me to play, probably because I was too young to understand the game, and I didn’t have enough eyesight to read the cards. But I didn’t feel bad. I always found their conversation during the game so entertaining.
About the Author
Abbie Johnson Taylor is the author of two novels, two poetry collections, and a memoir. She is currently working on another novel. Her work has appeared in The Weekly Avocet, The Writer’s Grapevine, and other publications. She lives in Sheridan, Wyoming. Visit her website http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com.