THE BATHROOM AT THE RITZ 

After turkey dinners at 
the Woolworths counter, 
we visit the fancy bathroom
at I Magnin – 
just my Gram and me.   

Marble walls,
hushed powder tones,
private tinkly pee. 
Holding Gram’s hand.
Reverent.  
Wondrous. 

Later, bathrooms at the Ritz
with friends,
wanting to be 
grand, entitled, 
elite.

Kind mirrors,
loving lighting,
folded tea towels –  
a sort of clean
odorless smell.  

You are rich.
You are beautiful.
You are good enough.

In these bathrooms
famous people pee.

Who could have just left? 
Meryl Streep
Hillary Clinton
Michelle Obama
You in another life. 

You are right behind them, 
part of something bigger.

Now, time for tea. 
Back to our table
after that backstage pass. 
Listen to the harpist,
eat a crumpet, 
drink in paintings, peonies, 
the grand piano –
all designed to make you feel
like royalty, 
or at least
a somebody. 

The entitled voice that grew
inside my head: 
Let me drive my Mercedes,    
wear designer shoes, movie star sunglasses, 
Chanel lipstick.     

The blank canvas upon which I painted
everything I never had: 
libraries, a classical education, 
Persian carpets,      
the tinkling of silver spoons in china teacups, 
intact morals, and snow. 
A revised history.

A happy ending
served on a silver platter.    

The competing voice that asked
about the consequences 
of the status quo? 
Wasting precious time
in a land of equivocation?

If only you’d open your eyes,     
the path to grandmother’s house
is wide and starlit.

I think of Gram...
the two-year-old who traveled by train
from Brooklyn to San Francisco
just in time for the 1906 earthquake.

The redheaded clotheshorse trying on outfits 
in dressing rooms with friends,    
snipping out Saks labels 
to sew into less fashionable attire
worn to speakeasies during Prohibition.

The best dancer in town marries a Goy – 
my father’s father, 
who turns out to be a no-good 
shicker – drunk.

The hard working divorcee 
proud of graduating      
from Katharine Gibbs Secretarial School, 
raising a son on her own.

Every Saturday, my brother and I 
clap and clamor 
as Gram enters the front door – 
her pillbox hat atop recently coifed curls, 
creamy translucent skin.
A stole wrapped around her shoulders, 
she smiles down at us as she
carries shopping bags filled with groceries,
and somewhere hidden 
toys or books,
a smooth white bakery bag 
filled with maple bars and jelly doughnuts
we dip in coffee and mostly milk.
Her brown eyes embers
as she leans over, kisses my cheek,
smelling of Pond’s cold cream
loving me in Yiddish,  
“My sheyne meydele.”
My beautiful girl.
Crooning fairytales  
in her Brooklyn accent.  

Anywhere Gram stood    
was home, 
as safe as Heidi’s Alps.

I’m sixteen,
in the passenger seat of Dad’s Thunderbird
as he drives over the mountain road
from the beach to the city, 
where I am to spend the night with Gram. 
Dad says, “Since she retired, she’s getting forgetful.” 
My feverish anguish at having to spend even one night away 
from my surfer-slash-drug-dealer-boyfriend, 
jealous thoughts circling like a homing pigeon. 
Is he with another girl?

Gram’s hands shake 
as she picks up her porcelain coffee cup
from one of the doilies that seem to be everywhere. 
But as she describes the big earthquake – 
her family stay in an Army tent in Golden Gate Park,
I forget my boyfriend.
I want to crawl into Gram’s lap.

She puts on Barbra Streisand’s Funny Girl album,  
takes my hands 
and spins me around the floor, 
sure-footed, laughing.

Afterwards, I curl up on her smooth white couch, 
head pressed into cushions, 
as she blows me kisses through the dark. 

The next morning, before I hitchhike home, 
I hunt through Gram’s black leather purse,
stuff a twenty-dollar bill into my pocket.
I rummage through her closet, 
put on a vintage white blouse with abalone buttons
hidden under my jacket.

As Gram holds onto my hand, 
not wanting to let go, shame burns.
How can I steal from my Gram?

I’m nineteen. 
Dad says, “Your grandmother was mugged by some asshole. 
Has some kind of amnesia. You need to take care of her.” 

I hold Gram’s small-boned hand 
as I lead her away from the beach,  
where she has gone in search of the phantom bus 
she imagines will take her back to the city.
She can’t place exactly who I am. 
When I try to explain why she can’t go home, 
she starts to cry. 
Our roles reversed. 

During that summer 
I hunt for Gram’s memory, 
believing it will return if we push hard enough. 
Sometimes I go too far –  
each morning, waking early with a start, 
caught between dreams of the night before 
and fear of the day ahead. 
Shivering as thoughts spin out of control 
along with Gram’s repeated questions.

Time feels like forever – 
captured in the confines of that small house
like a coffin, 
waiting for my parents to return. 

In my late twenties,
I visit Gram at the old age home.
Dad doesn’t come.
“I can’t stand to see her that way.”

Propped in a hospital bed,
Gram’s hair completely grey,
not a smile or a frown,
sunken cheeks,
dentures forgotten in a plastic cup.
The brown of her eyes faded, 
staring straight ahead –
no flicker of recognition.

The delicate fingers of her right hand 
repetitively pick at pieces of lint on the blanket.

Tears run down my cheeks 
as I take both her hands in mine. 
Gram, I’m sorry.
I loved you more than anyone.
I was so screwed up.
I’ve changed. I wish you could see me now. 

After Gram died, 
decades of deconstructing, reconstructing, 
feeling the guilt, anger and sadness
which eventually recede.
Apologizing to Gram
forgiving my younger self, 
her desperation. 
Forgiving my middle-age self, 
mistaking style for content –
appearances that masked inner pain.
I leave behind my Mercedes 
and Ferragamos with the staid bow
as love comes to the foreground.

I pull on slacks and sensible flats – 
choose a colorful top 
I think the second-graders will like.
Before running out the door, 
I stuff Fancy Nancy’s Spectacular Spectacles 
into my bag for Surai, 
a student who loves Fancy Nancy 
but isn’t excited about the glasses she now has to wear.
Right before I climb the steep hill 
to the classroom where I volunteer,
I stop at the local bakery to pick up my low-fat latte,
and a croissant for the teacher.

That morning, in the bare-walled industrial green
elementary school bathroom,
bright fluorescent lighting casting an unflattering sheen
on paper towels with a sandpaper feel,
my voice echoes as   
I show Ariana how to wash her hands 
thoroughly with soap. 

Sing happy birthday two times.
Make sure to get under the nails, 
like this – 
a precaution for COVID.

She glances up with doubtful eyes.
Let’s pretend it’s your birthday, I say.
We sing Happy Birthday together two times, 
loud and clear
then break out laughing.

I am finally able to be a Gram.