My Grandmother’s Companion
By Elizabeth Scott

We were in Venice, cruising the Mediterranean,
when climbing up from the gondola I knew
we had to look for a bathroom. I ran ahead
interpreting Italian signs until 3 blocks
up I got caught in the line for the toilets. I kept
her a place in line while she struggled
with her walker to catch up, but 
her white shorts were stained before I could pull 
open the door. I waited 30 minutes
wondering how I’d get her back to the ship.
People stared at me when I wouldn’t let them 
into the bathroom and wouldn’t go in 
myself, not know how to tell them
or my grandmother anything. I guarded her
until I gathered my nerve, opened the door.
No paper, I carried water from the sink
to her bottom and her thighs and washed her. Neither
of us spoke, and I nerve looked up. On the way back
noses wrinkled at the stench. She said, Only 3 blocks
to the dock, tossing her head back, her hair-sprayed hair
bobbing. It seemed we walked slower than usual,
my face grimy from tears and burning,
her face, powdery-soft as always.