It's been a long time since
she looked into those boxes
with the photo albums
Her grandmother's letters
to my grandmother
Every playbill with my name in it
Notes from my cousins and myself,
hearts and hand-drawn faces
blowing kisses.
She says she hasn't had the time
to go through these boxes,
she's worked or gardened or
gone into town for groceries.
But now she sits upstairs, cross-legged,
in her red handkerchief,
feeling a bit nauseous and feverish,
and the boxes sit in front of her,
generations of women she's loved and lost.
She goes through each picture and letter
as though they would let go of their secrets
if they fell out of her trembling hands.
She doesn't want to know the secrets yet.
That comes on the deathbed:
womens' whisperings, ghost hands
holding her own.
And she still has a lot of fight left in her.
She simple wants to break open the boxes
and be the observer.
She watches the white mist rise, watches it
swirl around her in recognition

04/04/2006

Posted on 04/04/2006
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