Legacy

Legacy

As a boy, I used to watch my Aunt Moira
apply cream blush to the apples of her cheeks,
warming the brush, pressing it in, curious
at the ritual as she applied powder afterward,
slipping cinnamon gloss onto her lips
as she prepared for ungrateful guests
at our family’s reunion. The ritual prepared
her to smile widely, and mentally, to look
ready as she crumbled, just slightly, under
mossy pressure, the weight of arguing
third cousins, the ungracious criticism
of people she barely knew odious.

“When will the burgers be ready?”
“Who’s going to organize the picnic tables?”
And once again.
“When will the burgers be ready?”

“You’re stronger than you know!”
I would say admiringly, unsure of precisely
what I meant, but meaning it wholeheartedly.

My admiration multiplied as I watched Moira
do it all: make potato salad, bake a lemon
chess pie, preparing her famous marinated
eggplant, flipping those perfect burgers
on that late, hot, August afternoon, causing
me to reflect on all the burger makers
that came before her: Grandma Ruth,
Aunt Allie-Beth, and Grandpa Houston. I’d
yell – “Stand tall guru!” -- as she would slip
me a smile along with a coy wink, meant
for just us two, only, serving the masses:
grumpy folks who had nothing in common
except distant bloodlines, and stories
of Uncle Ray, who could complete a back flip
and land on his feet at fifty-one years old,
to the delight of misty children. It was in these moments,
that I’d marvel and be in awe of her salty determination
and cornflower sass, and melt into a world
of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies,
as this crystal clear memory floats into my current
consciousness of years past.

Aunt Moira passed when I was twelve years old.
We stopped going to family reunions after that,
Instead visiting my Grandma Ruth’s dairy farm
on gentle spring weekends, the smell
of cornfields palpable, but Moira’s indelible
footprints left me dazzled and speechless,
a true pioneer among women living
in moldy small towns, emerging victorious
without even a bat of a false eyelash.

Written at the High Desert Retreat, October 2010

Father

Father

He was born in a pin striped suit
with hair slicked back like Dracula.
I would tease and he would chuckle.
He was quiet, sincere:
a gentleman’s gentleman.

That was just his nature I suppose.
Not that he spoke a lot in shadowed crowds,
but in sunflower moments,
and crystalline rain clouds, thoughts illuminate,
and he would open like a bright white lily,
and tell of incredible tales: how he dodged
the Korean War, how he reeled in the blue swordfish
now mounted in his conference room at work,
or about his commitment to community,
to service, to a life fulfilled.

For a man who said very little,
it’s beautiful really, and revealing.
That tall man with the deep voice
whose ominous presence challenged you,
how his piercing blue eyes, your eyes,
looked directly into your own
was just a man. Just a man.
Like anyone else I guess, with stories
to be told, sharing his heart, baring all, spinning
tales of fear, honor, and privilege,
how he grew up in a small town,
or how he secured his master’s degree
after attending college on the GI bill,
or how he played the lead role
in “I Never Sang For My Father,”
still hiding behind that suit,
which assumes an assuming man,
but underneath were just cotton pillows,
painted deserts, liquid dreams,
and the plain desire to be human.
Just human.
To find connection.
To be like everyone else.