HARRIET AND IDA

Sometimes, when we visited Grandma,
they would stop by to "have a chat."
They were old, at least I thought so then,
not having yet myself reached double digits.
Sisters, but not twins, they lived
four houses down next to the firehall.
Always dressed identical in black, they moved
with slow but steady steps up the street
to where, on certain Sunday summer
afternoons, we all sat on the porch,
the grownups fanning their faces.

I supposed Harriet was the older. She was
first to say hello and preceded her sister
up the steps. Conversation was polite
and seldom varied: the weather; a review,
usually favorable, of the preacher's
morning sermon; an occasional
recital of a list of aches and pains.
They sat side by side like black birds
on a fence and graciously declined
the inevitable offer of a lemonade.
"Thank you all the same, but we must
be getting on," Harriet would say
and give a nod to Ida. I wondered,
but never dared to ask,
exactly what it was they had to get to.