Her father would wince when he’d hear
Mom call us “you guys.” To Grandpa, the father
of two daughters, we were his precious
granddaughters, and this usage
stuck in his craw.

And though we preferred our rubber-toed
tennies (blue for my sister, red for me)
and corduroy pants to dresses and hard-soled
Mary Janes that did us no favors, we suffered
no gender confusion.

But Grandpa liked to tease. He’d type us
letters on his manual Smith Corona that began,
“Hiya, boys,” which made us giggle since he
loved to buy us frilly dresses, worn rarely
with the Mary Janes.

It was a matter of comfort, and our mom—
never a ‘50s TV mom in dress and apron—
knew that well herself, a pedal-pushers
and comfy shoes kind of gal, who was
no pushover.

“Knock it off, you guys!” she’d holler if we
were quibbling. Or “You guys be sure to use
the bathroom before you get in the car.”
Or to move us along: “C’mon, you guys.”

Now we guys tend her in her final days,
lingering around the house more than we have
in years. We guys jumped when she struggled
to move from the recliner that cradled her
fading self. We guys followed her as she
guided her walker down the hall. We guys
helped her choose the bright pink shirt
for our holiday photo.

Now we guys adjust her in the hospital
bed she never wanted. We tuck medication
under her pale tongue that rarely speaks.

“For this you want daughters,” she told me
when she still could.

“Well, it’s good you had two of them,” I said.

She nodded, looking up at me with
mother radar, tuning in the details
of my face that she can no longer see.

“What would I do without you guys?”

What will we guys do without her?

•••

Top photo: Sisters Janis (left) and Donna (right) Haag,
ages about 6 and 4, Orange County, California.