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.