Photo by Marcus Cramer on Unsplash

It happened every Sunday evening,
After tea, after the cups and saucers
And the sandwich plates were washed
Great Aunt Grace dressed in her Sunday Best,
Took her false teeth from their box in the top drawer,
Rinsed them and fixed them in her mouth.
Sat quietly until she was sure the service would be done,
Then went to church.
She went to clean.

Sometimes she took me with her.
No talking, – the teeth would not allow it,
Or so she said. And I was pleased.
With them she was no longer Auntie Grace.
I ran to keep up with her important stride.
Wondering why God preferred this stern stranger,
With her hard chin and hollow cheeks, to the aunt with the wonderful
Soft chin that wobbled from side to side
And up and down as she chewed,
Almost meeting her down-turned nose, and puffing her
Pink cheeks to apple roundness.

November 2000