My grandmother taught me
to type on an upright Remington
perched on the mahogany vanity
in her bedroom beside mine.
Each night after Viennese dinner,
wiener schnitzel and fried potatoes,
served on a warmed plate with
cold cucumber salad on its side,
she walked me up the creaky wooden stairs
to her bedroom, sat me down
on the stuff backed chair and held my fingers
over the keys, second row from the bottom
left pinky on the a, ring finger on the s,
middle finger on the d, pointer finger
on the f, followed by the right pinky on
colon, ring on the l, middle finger on the k
and pointer on the j.
She had me tap the keys and lift them
in their proper order like marching soldiers
outside inwards and back again,
saying each letter out loud as I drove along.
She told me when I got real good
I would not have to look at the keyboard
or the fingers covering them, but
at the age of nine it was a mere
fantasy propelled by an adoring
grandmother who built my
confidence in every syllable,
and now forty-five years later
I am a believer, as I type this poem
while looking out the window
to watch the hummingbird
whisper kisses to the purple flower
which just opened this morning,
only days after my last book
went to press after I blessed
it with grandma’s love
and thanked her for that
spring day thumping on those
so many years ago.
