| Bind Up My Life Mama Earth Days Page 7 |
 |
| Clan |
| I have identified that black cloud, looming. Looked it in the face, full measure, And have concluded this: A clan is dying Not just a generation�. Each generation makes peace With the last in one way or another� But a clan carries with it, a history ~ Longer than the last or the one before Like an ancient tree in a wood, Each ring remembering�. It�s not so easy to make one�s peace Rather archaic notion, these days- Clans dying. But they still exist, And they do still die. My mother and my aunts are the last� Each has seen her mortality Each is grappling with the details The oldest charges full steam ahead And expects to simply drop dead Do not let me linger�. My mother does not want to die alone She sees it as a mark of cowardice She wants be independent But she is afraid� The youngest has simply faded away Like elves heading West She is a body with no rudder They speak of my grandmother. She was the last matriarch. I was thinking of her this morning - Her penmanship� Although she rarely visited people She maintained a very active correspondence Right up until her death. Although she did not go on to college She knew how to craft a letter She knew how to form words beautifully With a pen. She did not go to college She was of an age and income That did not warrant such things For daughters � Only sons could be considered. She had an invalid mother She had older sisters who were to be married. I have often wondered what she would have done Had she been allowed to go to college Would she have realized the power Of her being? Would she have been a writer? Lawyer? Indian chief? Perhaps she did and was content To rule a smaller kingdom� She was in love. He was the boy on the farm She could see from her bedroom window. Her dowry was: Three laying hens Two pigs One Jersey cow. Or so the story goes�. |
| He was her consort, And a very good one� He was her whisper to the ear Patience, compassion, truth� He loved making hook rugs He loved making �seed� paintings His children told him how wonderful they were He accepted their praises bashfully They kept his rugs In reverence Like holy relics They did not understand It wasn�t the finished product But the act of doing it, The battle of eye against hand, That fascinated him. Transfixed him� A child in awe Of Christmas lights, The maker of wooden treasure boxes The word of wisdom Spoken in whispers� He died And with him, A kind of soft glow, Illuminating Covering all in a gentle light Gone� And in it�s wake, We could see The chards of my grandmother�s brilliance As if for the first time And feel the sting Of its logic� She did not suffer fools Gladly. My grandmother lost two children Before her death She said a mother shouldn�t outlive her children It is not a new idea. A son and a daughter She cried when my grandfather died She knew he was dead Even before they pronounced it There, in her living room By her little rocking chair Stretched out on the floor Dead� She ran from the room Crying. Ironically it sounded like a child Giggling. Those were her tears- Little girl tears For the boy on the farm She could see From her bedroom window� |
 |
 |
 |