Stories from my memoir SEASONS

I’m birthed in the Spring,

set on the wind, a

a child of air would grow in

a unique design.

All the elements would

be sent to bend me,

water me, perhaps kill me

to test my resilience

and worth.

In time. I flower and

dare to stand and

run wildly to face

the glory of life.

TAKING MY PLACE
The white tent covering Mother’s grave, erected for privacy and shelter, brings neither. We ignore the chairs lined up like empty laps, and fuse together against the gale that cracks and whips the walls of our portable sanctuary. The simple pine box with David’s star on its lid will be lowered in the old way, ropes and four strong men. The prescribed prayers of mourning and remembrance, the black ribbon slashed, and pinned to my coat signifying her tearing away from me. The shovel filled with the earth I release on her unadorned tomb. All rituals are observed, it was a promise. The prison of my rib age opens, unleashing the anguish of those Hebrew words for loss, death and everlasting, ring to my lamenting soul. Then a wail as ancient as death itself. I feel I cannot live through such a pain, yet the presence of others reminds me that I still inhabit a body and the grief of an orphan. Never again will I nuzzle into her sweet smelling talcum which my memory conjures even now. Too much to lose. Not ready to be alone, without her, no more mother. How will I take the matriarch’s role? Without a hand at the small of my back, how shall I stand alone now? I am no one’s child. How will I reach out and pull others along? There is no choosing. I am she. I am the mother and the grandmother now. I must tell the stories to my children. I must sing the songs and speak of love and loyalty and friendships and passions. I must keep my arms open and embrace the dreams and desires of others. I must now forge my links to the golden belt of life.