Vol 6, Num 24 :: 2007.12.28 — 2008.01.11
In this version of your life—
we’ll call it a poem—
in this story, grandma,
you will be hooking rugs
until your dying day.
No, you will not be managing
the Dairy Bar,
or marking the forty year’s worth
of mathematics exams that you gave
to your students
in the one room schoolhouse just outside
of Portage.
You won’t even be making black strap
molasses cookies—the sustenance
of your iron love like a
beating heart baked
into every batch.
Instead, you’ll be bent over your frame
creating wild expanses of color
with your hook,
your hands, strong from spanking and
from cooking, will weave the wool—
cut up old scraps from your wardrobe,
stored neatly under your bed—
across the burlap canvas,
a sight to behold.
This time, you will work without a pattern,
your art slowly unfolding before you
in a collection of stillbirths and wedding vows,
water and sand,
hospital beds and raspberry bushes,
costume jewelry and
the real thing.
And it won’t be until that last day—
that very last afternoon—
when you pull the final
length of fabric through the
final hole
In this version of the story,
I will be there
but instead of stepping back
to admire your masterpiece,
you will do what comes most naturally:
you will pass the hook to me,
pull out a fresh length of burlap
and begin
the lesson.
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