In the photo, grown cracked and distant
with age, my great-grandmother Kustaavas is seated
outdoors, her plain dress dignified, unadorned,
Her face, remarkably unlined, looks on, quizzically,
head tilted slightly to one side, a thin glimmer
of a smile shining forth through shadow.
She is centered perfectly in the frame,
as she was undoubtedly in life, yet clearly seems
unaccustomed to such a fuss being made.
In the lower left, the back tire of a Model-T
casts its lengthening shadow, a tangible bridge
stretching from one century to the next;
while further off to the right, a milk pale stands
as a reminder that this life is a life of work,
its chores never finished, and that cows, chickens,
and children pay little heed to the sabbath.
But in this moment, at least, she appears content
with it all, the moment of stillness well earned.
In the next, she will draw her breath in deeply,
blow the candles out like so many sparks
of light in the night sky, out past the camera's
shuttered lens, beyond her own imagining,
far enough to find us here, still in need of such light.
Send more, Isoรคiti, send more.
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