I had two grannies (Not everyone does, you know). One tall and spindly like a soothsayer’s runes And another short and dwarfish like a hoarder of rubies.
If they could have peeled the flesh off me They would have when I was four And grafted their skin on me with their Surgery knives of fleshy steel called tongues.
I remember them: their eyes, and now I wish — I wish I didn’t. Except in those messy fairy tales where Witches get pushed into ovens And children find their own way home.
But they don’t.
Just as an addendum: I never saw my grandmothers again after the age of six when we moved and they diedat a much later date. My dim memories of them are few.
September rolls around like a pumpkin, like a pumpkin on a skateboard careening round the corner past the tail-end of August, catching me off guard every year, and I’m knocked off my feet and on to my keester, a pile of leaves cascading around me, muffling the laughter of neighborhood children.
blackbirds call – in the yellow orange light a morning shines chill and pure
It’s the memories that leave me agape more than the innumerable pumpkins, the shedding trees and goblin children already looking forward to October and All Hallow’s Eve. So many crowd into the season’s turn, old faces smiling from the theater screen of autumn’s cerulean sky, busy with the doings of a golden declarative moment. Yet one stands out.
a half-remembered song – a black-limbed tree of blackbirds scatter in the wind
My Indian parents arriving in New York with six-year-old me in hand with silk Singapore jackets on our backs from a well-traveled in-law and my mother walking home with groceries and fainting on the sidewalk from hypothermia in a freak snowstorm. Nothing quelled her spirit though. Ever. Her Christian faith was unshakeable. Besides, we were in America, land of freedom, land of dreams, land of promise. Later a church fixed us up with proper coats and my mother’s face emerged regal as a queen’s out of an oversized pumpkin-orange coat, wearing her red sari, gold-threaded border in folds, daring fashion, daring my smile.
under palm trees a new grave – blackbirds carve silhouettes in September
Autumn Leaves, Lake George, 1924 by Georgia O’Keeffe, Image Source: georgiaokeeffe.net Thanks to Sunnyside where I first saw this.
Sharing this modified Irish blessing from my daughter, Asha ….
☘️”May you always have…
Walls for the winds
A roof for the rain Tea beside your laptop Those you love near you And a little yellow dog at your feet.“☘️
Also love this Irish blessing: “May you always walk in sunshine. May you never want for more. May Irish angels rest their wings right beside your door.” (h/t Linda)
☘️ Happy St. Patrick’s Day! ☘️ The luck of the Irish be with all my merry readers!
She was mute all her life.
Though she spoke words
In dumb agony of reproach
Rage-built torment of unredeemed
Days past when deeds were done wrong
And wounds like serpent bites
Had devoured her tongue
Leaving voiceless fury, unsung tears
Among goaded offspring
Of jealous hate
Where a child of flesh
Fed on milky vinegar
Beneath her ravaged gaze
Hears mute anger
In jagged commands
And runs joylessly to the sound
Of her voice.
Dreams from a Pilgrimage 