Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I hate her mother.
I don't hate her mother.
I can't understand her mother.
For a person who has such a strong relationship with my own mother, it is hard for me to understand.
Hard to understand how her mother could just send her to stay with someone else.
Hard to understand how her mother could just leave her in the camp.
It is terrible what the government did to her people. The hard times she was put through because of her race.
It makes it worse that one of her own family would turn her back on her as well.
Friday, February 15, 2008
I am from frames,
from G&G molding, and miter saws.
I am from the ground barefoot.
(Comfortable and close underneath leather-bottom feet.)
I am from the rose garden
the magnolia trees
which grow large in my backyard and after which my great grandmother was named.
pole on the kitchen floor,
a compound bow at the age of 4,
and snuggled next to my little brother in a sleeping bag
while my Dad hunted.
I am from banana-pudding and laughing loud with head thrown back,
from Mary Leigh and Nancy.
I am from the last blacksmith in Springhope, talented cabinetmakers and good mothers.
From “do you know how much I love you?”
and “it’ll all work out”.
I’m from faith in Jesus and His saving grace.
From Sunday school singing of “Jesus loves you” and the desire to give my heart to Him.
From His lifting of my burdens and
“when I die, hallelujah, by and by I’ll fly away”.
home-made chicken stew and mashed
potatoes with hard boiled eggs.
From the magic Papa used to hypnotize pigeons,
the cream soda in the cooler in the back of GranGran’s truck.
covered with framed photos of loved ones and
the experiences we’ve had together,
collages of family vacations.
I am from the times we get together and paint with our words the pictures that we did not capture.