“Great-Grandmother,” New Era, Aug. 1989, 28
Great-Grandmother
One Saturday night, Mama told how
you crossed the Atlantic with only a
sister for company, another result of
family struggling to send each
child to Zion. Diverted by her
best of voices I scowled only
slightly while she finished
rolling my hair for lank Sunday curls.
My sister and I later quibbled over
who toed the line that
divided our bed into suddenly
remote hemispheres. Then I dreamed of
you blown together in a
rowboat, destined for those
hardbound adventures that
crowded Little Golden books on my shelf.
Hearing the story on request
I feel a clearing through distant
harbor, where ships were
watched out of sight. You clutched for
the hand of one who ached, standing
taller than her 11 years. And salty
wind furrowed the sea, sifted
through uncleared acres, Zion,
saw you home in this patchworked
shade of lilacs and a weeping willow.