My grandmother never trusted calculators.

She would crunch numbers in a spiral notebook

at the kitchen table, watching her news.

Work harder and I’d have more to count,

she’d snap at my father. And so my father worked

harder, fixed more mufflers, gave her receipts

but the numbers seldom changed.

There were silky things my mother wanted,

glorious dinners we could not afford.

Grandma would lecture her: no more garbage,

and so our house was clean. The attic spotless.

In fact, it wasn’t until after she died

that my parents found out how much she had saved us.

What hidden riches had been kept in those notebooks,

invested in bonds, solid blue digits

etched on each page. She left them
in the kitchen by her black and white television
we tossed a week later, though it seemed to work fine.