My grandfather had been the only pharmacist in their small town
And his sudden, unexpected passage caused a great concern
Who but he could formulate those pills and plasters that I need, I heard
Or speak in confidence of secret things that women need to know
It was the passing of an era that never to return, and the town suffered

But my grandmother recognized the need and kept the shop alive
Not with formulated drugs, of course, but patent medicines of every kind
She sold the belts that contain ones hernia, elastic hose for popping veins
And those secret things for women too, and men brave enough to ask
And for children, all the candies they could want, and a soda fountain too.

The big family home was now too large, but she kept it clean and in repair
When the bathroom, modernized just years before, required a bit of life
She hired some local men to hang new paper, pink fish in a sea of black
They hung it upside down, dead fish all, but at least it’s clean, she said
Same when linoleum was held by silver tacks marching down its seams 

I had an uncle too, my mother’s brother, who’d been crippled in his youth
And pampered ever since with love perhaps to generous for his good
He helped about the store, mostly just talk and discounts for his friends
He’d convinced his mom liquor sales could bring cash without much risk
He was found dead on his mother’s steps one night, the cash box gone

In that way grandmother and I both reached our end in that small town
Her health was failing now as well, but not her wit and love
And so she moved to the city, to the generous home my parents built
Where she lived a life of leisure she had never known before
And died among those she loved the most, I was there to say farewell