(Tyyne Natus, 1906-1953)
Having waded through the green waves of ditch grass
the prickly stems of young strawberries
and the private cosmology of gnats, we arrive
like casual explorers to examine the broken foundation,
hidden from view off the highway, of what once was
The County Line Bar, place where my grandparents --
only yesterday it seems -- served up drinks
to the always thirsty locals and those passing through,
and no doubt consumed as much as they sold.
Who's to say that these ruins are not sacred,
or their ghosts worthy of remembrance?
Just over there, my grandmother stood for what has
become my favorite photograph of her, framed
on either side by my grandfather and two regulars,
laughing, girlish and seemingly without care,
her small dog held close against her, one cloud of breath,
all but invisible, hovering in the crisp winter air.
This is how I want to remember her, her smile
like a sudden flash of daylight, the gold in her hair
shining, even in black-and-white -- before the loss
of a son on the other side of the world tore
something in her irreparably, before the alcohol bruised
and the weight of her days became too much.
I need to remember this moment, if only for myself,
to remember that she knew joy upon this earth,
the ease and gentleness of common things,
that she loved and was called beloved in return.
No comments:
Post a Comment