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| art by my Great Aunt Elsie |
Lately I've been giving myself permission to read and write more. To let the laundry pile up and the dishes wait to be unloaded. Because when I am stressed out and busy and don't let myself do what I love, I become a strange tense version of myself that I don't want to be.
Anywho. One of the benefits of letting myself write more is having something to share on my little blog! Below, I'm posting a poem I wrote about my Great-aunt Elsie. Enjoy!
(And by the way, what will you do this week that you just love?)
Card Castle
I never
visited her,
my great
aunt Elsie,
Never saw
the life she built
out of the
bad hand she was dealt.
Born to an overwhelmed father and an ailing mother,
with so many
mouths to feed
in the Great
Depression.
Not a single
ace or king, nothing up her sleeve.
Her mother
passed (Passed what? The final test?)
and her
older sister (my grandmother) tried to care for them—
Elsie and
her tiny twin brothers--,
but
her young newlywed husband (my grandfather) just couldn’t handle it.
and so, it
was off to the orphanage.
My
grandmother stood tall, in heels and her best skirt,
uncertain,
watching
small, wiry Elsie twist her dark auburn hair.
Finally, she
signed the papers at the counter, so many words stuck in her throat,
and the
clerk hurrying her with his eyes.
I don’t know
much about the orphanage,
except that that’s where my grandmother said
Elsie must’ve
learned to be a lesbian.
Long years
of living with so many other girls
and no boys, she explained.
But I have
the wisdom of time,
and so many homosexual branches off my family tree.
Genetics are
genetics.
My sister
visited their apartment once, in Seattle,
Great Aunt Elsie
and her artist partner.
They painted
flowers and trees and laughed from a purple velvet couch.
They walked
down to the farmer’s market every Saturday.
I like to
picture them side by side,
Gray hair
swaying,
pushing
bicycles with baskets heavy laden
through the shining streets.
I like to
study her art hanging on the wall
in my hallway in California.
The beauty
she created smiles out at me.
I like to
think of her, her head tilted,
considering the lines, the light,
contemplating,
a cat
sunning in her window.
I like to
think of how she built a quiet castle
out of a bad hand of cards.
